The Hollow Men
by ohdeariemegoodness
Summary: L comes back from the dead, Light has an existential crisis, and no one knows where Mello is. Oh, and then there's B. WIP in which everyone is in over their heads and no one cares as much as they should. L/Light.
1. In this valley of dying stars

_._

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

-T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

**1  
**

**In this valley of dying stars**

* * *

**_November 5th, 2007_**

L's hair is still wet, and the chain is gone. There aren't any bells, but the feeling of them is there, thick and ringing and heavy under L's skin.

If he tests the notebook, Light will die.

The order has already been given, anyway. All that's left to do is wait. The investigation team is outraged, as usual, and L really does not want to deal with this right now. Light is gone. It's just Kira, now. L shoves sweets into his mouth even though he can feel them creeping back up his throat.

The power flickers, and this was—this was not unexpected, but Watari isn't answering, and is Watari—the Shinigami, where is the Shinigami—

There is a pain in his chest, then, and L can't—he can't—

_Kira._

* * *

**_Six Years Later_**

The first thing L is aware of is that his fingers _hurt. _The feeling is somewhere between burning and swelling, like the blood in his fingertips has suddenly decided it can't stay, boiling through his veins as it fights to evacuate. The pain travels up his arms and meets in his chest before spreading out to the rest of his body. L is panting, struggling for breath as sweat streams down his face and into his open mouth. The pain is so great it overshadows his awareness of anything else, taking residence somewhere behind his eyes like hazy wildfire. Eventually, L lets himself be swept away.

The second thing L is aware of is that the pain has stopped, and he is both stark naked and unbearably cold. He struggles to move his limbs, managing to pull himself into a tight, shivering ball before collapsing bonelessly back to the ground. L takes in several deep breaths, trying to get his bearing, but his head is spinning and his most recent memory does not match up with his current circumstances. He constructs an immediate hierarchy of needs: he needs to know where he is, he needs a cell phone, and he needs to be out of this mind-numbing cold. The first step towards achieving these goals is definitely sitting up, but sitting up proves to be more of a challenge than he'd like.

L finally pushes himself into a sitting position and promptly loses the contents of his stomach. There isn't much, but what does come out is black and thick and rotten, and L dry heaves for several long minutes before he can breathe without retching. Tears are streaming from his eyes and he's not sure why, not sure what's going on or why he's alive or how he's ended up wherever he is. The tears are freezing on his face, crusting along his eyelashes. L realizes that he needs to find shelter before hypothermia sets in.

Step one: establish surroundings. He's in a recently trimmed grassy area. There is a streetlight in his line of sight and he decides to move in that direction. Moving is easier said than done, though, and L half-crawls, half-staggers to the light, tripping and literally rolling downhill for the last several meters. L lies flat on his back in the dirt, catching his breath and staring upward. He can only pick out a few stars in the night sky, probably the result of near-by light pollution. He deducts that he is most likely in or near a city or other densely-populated area. The streetlight he landed beside is one of two, and the other is flickering and faint, illuminating a dirty parking lot with a single car in it.

L clutches the concrete base of the streetlight and pulls himself up. His head is finally clearing, and he feels slightly more like himself. It takes longer than it should, but he makes it to the car without falling down again, so that's a step in the right direction. The car is tiny and rusted, of uncertain make and model due to an assortment of mismatched parts, and at least twenty years old judging from the shape and condition. The passenger door is unlocked and L is so relieved he almost cries again. He stumbles in and pulls the door closed behind him, immediately searching for something to warm up with. There is an opaque white rain poncho in the glove box and a thick woolen scarf underneath the front seat, and L promptly puts both on. He wraps the scarf around his head and tucks his entire body into the poncho for maximum body heat retention.

L wakes up to a throbbing headache, a bright light, and the firm stare of a uniformed police officer.

"Sir, is this your vehicle?"

L shakes his head.

The officer pulls him roughly out of the car, and L goes limp, dropping to the ground. He chews on his thumb. This is an admittedly unpleasant situation, but all will be resolved once he makes it to a police station and can contact Whammy's House. L notices a hysterical girl beside another officer and realizes she must be the owner of the car he'd broken into.

The officer is saying something, but L isn't certain what. L interrupts him.

"I apologize, Officer. It was very cold last night. I suppose you will have to arrest me now."

L takes the scarf off his head and lays it beside the car. He does not say anything else, and eventually the man gives up on his lecture and cuffs L. The girl does not ask for her poncho back, and L enjoys a warm, sleepy car ride to the police station.

As L is checked in, he realizes that everyone has been speaking Japanese, and when he asks, the lady taking his information confirms that he is in Tokyo. He gives the name Rue Ryuzaki—a habit he just can't seem to quit—and gives blatantly false answers to all of the questions he's asked. He waits in a holding cell by himself until a man comes to inform him that if he'd like to make his phone call now is the time.

The first number he tries is the private emergency number that should reach both Watari and the establishment. It is disconnected. He tries every number he knows connected with Whammy's House, but none of the calls go through. At this point L is beginning to feel slightly panicked. Except for the Kira Task Force, no one unconnected to Whammy's House can connect his face to his identity, and if L is piecing his last moments together correctly, the investigation team believes he is dead.

"Time's up."

L does not resist as he is taken to a larger holding cell, this one occupied by several other men, with one questionable person wearing a trashbag. L looks down at his poncho outfit and realizes he probably fits into the trashbag category.

"They'll probably keep you here for 48 hours," the man tells him, "and then they'll let you go. I don't think charges are being pressed."

L ignores the man and lies down on a bench. There are no beds, just benches, and a toilet on one wall. L has not had to spend much time in holding cells before but to his knowledge, this one is pretty run-of-the-mill. He wants to sit in his normal position but that feels like a poor idea when he is wearing nothing but a poncho that barely reaches his knees. No one is speaking, everyone too occupied with themselves, and L does not interrupt the quiet of the cell.

L has just reached the trance-like state of thought that he finds most efficient for working his way out of a difficult situation when his alias is announced. He sits up.

"Rue Ryuzaki, please come with me."

L follows obediently as he is taken into a new room—an interrogation room. An uncertain feeling grows heavy in the pit of his stomach as he is cuffed to the table. He keeps his face blank as he waits, keenly aware of the cameras in the uppermost corners of the room.

No one comes to interrogate him, though, and after what feels like several hours the same officer comes back and frees L from the table.

"What is going on?" L demands. "I think I need to speak to my lawyer."

The officer ignores him, pulling the cuffs tight as he restrains L's arms behind his back.

"Excuse me. I said I need to speak with my lawyer."

The officer shakes his head. "You can take that up with L. I don't know what you've done, but you're being moved into his custody. You're out of my jurisdiction now."

A mixture of relief and apprehension floods through L. Best case scenario, his calls were registered but unanswered for security reasons, and he will be escorted to Whammy's House or another safe base. Worst case scenario—most likely scenario—Light is now functioning as L, and has somehow managed to take out or take over the establishment entirely, and is sending agents to pick L up and murder him again. L needs to know what year it is, and he needs to know now.

"What is the date?"

How has he not already figured this out? Are his deductive abilities failing him? L can't think. He vaguely notices that he is hyperventilating. His ears are ringing.

The world stops spinning and L realizes that he is now in the floor of the hallway, and the officer is crouched down beside him, eyes crinkled and worried.

"There you are," the man says. "Look at you, all pale and scrawny. Are you even eighteen yet? If you're still a minor we might be able to keep you in our custody."

L shakes his head, regaining control. "I just need to know what the date is, please."

"It's November 5th."

"What year?"

The officer gives L a strange look. "2013."

L died six years ago. He died six years ago, and now he is back, and how has this happened, why is he here? A growing sense of dread overtakes L as he realizes that he died without ever seeing the system deleted—if Watari had died without deleting everything, if Light had managed to hack his way into L's system, he could have found Whammy's House and taken out L's successors long before they were ready. It's the only explanation that makes sense, because no security concern could keep Watari from answering a distress call from L, not six years after his disappearance, not when L was the only person beside Watari himself who knew the number—L is hyperventilating again, but he can't stop. Maybe there's a way out of this alive but he can't find it, he can't find it, and Light is going to kill him again, L is going to lose again, and _why is this happening at all?_

The officer is patting L's back now, and L slowly comes back to himself.

"I'm sorry," L apologizes. "That was not the answer I was expecting."

He stands up. If Light is going to kill him then L is going to face his death bravely. Again. Maybe there will be a chance for escape. Maybe Light has forgotten about being Kira again. Maybe.

L watches as his mugshot is deleted and his file is handed over to an agent with an L-badge. The agent guides him into a sleek black SUV, blindfolds him, and attaches the cuffs around his wrists to a metal bar in the seat.

They drive for almost an hour, taking a disorienting series of turns that L struggles to keep straight in his mind. When the car stops, L has only a very vague idea of his location and has yet to formulate a viable escape plan. He considers making a run for it when the door opens, but he hasn't eaten since he woke up the first time, in the grass, and he's still fairly unstable. It's probably better to scope out the situation before making an escape attempt that will almost certainly fail and result in increased security measures.

He's led into an elevator, and it makes pleasant dinging noises fourteen times, indicating he is on the fourteenth floor of an unexpectedly tall building. The building smells familiar, and L realizes with a jolt that he may have actually been taken back to his own headquarters. It stinks of dramatic irony, and Light has always been overly fond of dramatics.

L shuffles his feet as he waits for something to happen. Soon enough, he hears sharp, clipped footsteps—almost certainly men's dress shoes—and the blindfold is roughly ripped from his face. Light's eyes are wide, shocked and soft.

"It's really you. I mean, I saw the mugshot, but I didn't think… It's really you. L. L. How did this—how are you here?"

_I'm still wearing this poncho_, L thinks, inanely.

"We can get you some clothes, L. Answer my question."

He didn't mean to say that out loud. L is lost, drowning, unconnected. "I don't—I don't know."

"You should be dead. You were dead."

"Yes," L agrees. "I was dead."

It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. Shinigamis and killer notebooks and rising from the dead.

"And now you're alive."

L doesn't say anything. His head hurts. He's hungry.

L realizes with a start that Light is hugging him. He stiffens up immediately, but Light doesn't let go. Slowly, he relaxes into Light's hold.

"There's black stuff all over your legs, L, and you stink. You need a shower."

L doesn't know how he feels, but a shower sounds nice. And then maybe some cake. And coffee, and strawberries. And then sleep, again. Sleep for a long time, in a bed, and under blankets. Clothes again, too, and not this poncho.

Light takes L to a bathroom and the agent from before undoes L's handcuffs. L struggles out of the poncho and one of his wrists is promptly handcuffed to a metal safety rail.

Light catches L eyeing the handcuff and laughs a little awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. He looks the same as he did before, only broader and taller and older. His hair is still shiny.

"No offense, L, but I'm not just going to let you take off now that you're here."

L nods. He expected as much. Had expected worse, actually, and is still expecting it at any moment. He feels like he's floating, suspended in a bubble of make-believe here with Light, like the real world will intrude at any moment. He's waiting for other shoe to drop, holding out for the thud of the headsman's axe.

Light rolls up his sleeves, turns on the water, and lathers his hands up with shampoo.

"I'll get your hair," he announces. "You clean yourself off. That black stuff is all over you. What did you do, roll in the dirt?"

"Ah," L says. "That would be the vomit."

Light's brow quirks.

"I was rather nauseous when I first woke up," L explains.

Light grimaces. "That's disgusting."

"Yes," L agrees. He puts body wash on a loofah. Of course Light would have a loofah.

Light massages the shampoo into L's scalp, and L hums in appreciation. This feels nice. Like the Light before they caught Higuchi, still sharp and childish and petty, but without the edge of condescension that came afterwards. That Light had been eager and strangely gentle, and he had also washed L's hair in the shower while making pointed remarks about L's poor hygiene.

Eventually, L is clean again, and he is sorry to see the shower go. Light dries him off and mutters about L being useless. L closes his eyes and enjoys the soft sensation of Light's hands and attention.

"Light-kun."

Light looks up, paused over L's legs. "What?"

L doesn't say anything.

Light lets L loose from the safety rail and guides him into an adjoining room, keeping a firm hold on L's wrist. The room is large and nicely decorated, an enormous bed taking up the majority of the open space, and L realizes that they must be in one of Light's personal rooms. Light gives L sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and clean underwear. L has never been so grateful for underwear in his life, and he rewards Light with a smile. Light raises an eyebrow.

"What are you doing with your face?"

L is a little out of practice, maybe. He puts on his clothes. They are soft and warm and perfect and oh god, he never wants to be cold again. L is never taking these sweatpants off.

Light handcuffs L to the bedframe and L sinks into his familiar crouch. The position feels safe and natural and L wraps his free arm around his legs, resting his head on top of his knees. Light digs through his drawers, clearly searching for something. After a little while, he makes a pleased noise, holding something in his hands, and is that—

"You kept it?"

Light flushes bright red. "I mean, I didn't throw it out, obviously."

L laughs, momentarily delighted, and holds out his right wrist. Light chains them together and L feels like no time has passed at all, like he hasn't been dead for six years, like this is just Light again. L doesn't even want to know about Kira. He will have to gather intelligence soon, will have to stop Light at some point, but not right now. Not just this moment.

The handcuff on his left wrist clicks off, and Light leaves it hanging limply from the bedframe. The same agent from before comes into the room, drops off a tray of food, and leaves without acknowledging either of them.

L literally launches himself at it, but Light holds him back.

"Rice first, then cake."

L growls. He's surprised at himself but he stands by his decisions.

"Rice first. You need something with substance. Then you can have cake. It's strawberry, I know that's your favorite."

L puts nine sugar cubes in his coffee and twice as many in his rice. He wolfs down his cake with his hands, just digging out handfuls and shoving them into his mouth. Light watches the massacre with unmasked repulsion and makes L wash his face in the bathroom when he is done.

"You're like an animal, L. You need table manners. This is something we're going to work on."

L ignores Light.

"I would like to sleep now."

Light's eyebrows shoot up. He's always had such expressive eyebrows, which only goes to show why plucking them out is an absolute necessity in L's line of work.

"In the bed?"

L nods fervently.

Light looks skeptical but changes into a sleep shirt and pants anyway. They lay down, Light straight and soldier-like on his side of the bed, sheet pulled neatly up to his chest. L cocoons himself in the comforter. It's not even fully dark yet, and the last struggling rays of sunlight are spread across the ceiling. L curls into himself, knees to chest, chin to knees. There's a feeling in the back of his throat, like a hiccup, and he tries to swallow it down.

There's an empty space in the room where Watari should be, and L feels like he will walk in any moment with a tray of sugar and case files. L tries to avoid thinking about it, but now that his brain is running again he can't shut it off. Light is still alive, and that means his successors are not, and Watari is not. Six years. L is underwater, he's drowning, his lungs are burning. He wants to go home but he has nowhere to go. A lifetime of hotels and orphanages and headquarters.

The room is blurry and L puts his hands to his eyes. He can't breathe. A choked sob escapes him and he pulls the comforter over his head.

A moment passes before the comforter lifts up and there is Light.

"L, I…" Light trails off, looking away. His jaw is clenched.

L can't. He can't. He hides his face in the pillow but the damage is already done. Light turns L over and pulls him into his chest, and L is reminded of quiet nights, Light's golden skin, the copper of his hair and the gentle rhythm of his breathing. Maybe, L had thought. Maybe. But then there was Higuchi, and it wasn't maybe anymore.

L digs his face into the front of Light's shirt, and Light's arms hover tentatively for a moment before they come down around L's back. L takes a deep, shuddering breath. Things will be okay. They're not okay now, but they will be, and L will be able to breathe again. But Light is all he has and if he gives Light up—gives Kira up—he will have nothing left. L can't think about that, he can't—not right now. Not right now. Light's hands are rubbing slow circles on L's back.

L doesn't need this, he doesn't need Light. He will be fine alone, like he's always been. Light's fingers are combing through his hair, though, and it just. It just feels nice. And L can be on his own later. When Light is done.

"Where were you?" Light whispers. "How did you come back? When?"

"Ah. Today, I think. In the morning. It was dark."

L has only brief flashes of memory from his early life, before Watari. There was a moment, at an orphanage in France—it was snowing, and his hands were wrapped around his feet. L hadn't understood, yet, that he was alone. He'd been waiting.

"And you broke into someone's car? And slept in it?"

L nods.

"How did you—how—what do you remember?"

L shakes his head. His hair catches in the button of Light's shirt, and Light untangles it with shaking fingers.

"I just woke up. I don't know how I got there, I don't know—it hurt."

Light tenses, fingers clutching L's shirt. "Was there a Shinigami? Did you see anything strange?"

"No, nothing, it was just, I woke up. In the grass. I didn't have any clothes. I had to steal a poncho. There was a man in jail with me who was wearing a trashbag, and no one would sit by us." He's rambling but he can't stop. L has to keep going until everything ends again.

"Why did it hurt? Was it the cold?"

"No, my fingers, my fingers hurt. And then the rest of me. For a long time. And then I woke up again, and I threw up on myself, and I fell down a hill and broke into a car and a policeman woke me up with his flashlight in my eyes even though it was already morning." L is breathing too fast, he knows, but he can't get any air. Black dots are starting to crowd his vision. There's a catch in his lungs that's been there since he woke, a faint wave of hysteria that washes over whenever L stops holding it back. L needs to be alone, needs to put himself back together, but he's not sure he can. He has to, though. Has to get back up, like he has before.

Light's body is pressed against his and Light's hands are on his back and in his hair and L can't right now, he can't. He should be angry at Light—he should be angry—but he doesn't have the energy for hate right now. He's grateful for his shower and his sweatpants and his cake, and Light is still beautiful, and it's not fair that someone like Light should look the way he does. L brings his mouth up to Light's and Light responds almost desperately, his fingers slipping underneath L's shirt and running up his spine.

Light reaches for the nightstand, digging around in the top drawer.

After Higuchi, Light wouldn't, he didn't want to—he wouldn't touch L anymore, and L had never had anyone before Light. And now, L is soft and spread apart, his shell broken away, and he doesn't know how to build up his wall of percentages and oddities when everything is swirling around him like this. He's never—he'd always been on top, before, and now he feels invaded and defenseless and Light is taking up his airspace, filling in L's breathing room. L's hands scrabble across Light's back, feeling his dips and hollows, and Light's hands are gripping L's thighs, and his mouth is on L's neck, and L can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything else.

Light reaches between them, and L's eyes are fluttering shut, and he feels too full and not full enough and too full all over again. His skin is burning and Light's breath runs across him in bursts.

He comes with a soft, startled moan, hot liquid shooting onto his own stomach, and Light follows almost immediately. Sweat drips from Light's hair and nose, running down his neck, and L reaches up to wipe it away as Light collapses on top of him, still breathing heavily.

Light's cheek is beside L's, and he's still inside, and L doesn't know how he feels about this. His heart is racing, pulse fluttery and uneven. After Light catches his breath, he pulls out of L and grabs a handful of tissues off the nightstand. He cleans L up without a word, wiping between L's thighs like this sudden intimacy is nothing unexpected, nothing to be remarked upon. He still doesn't say anything as he curls around L from behind, leaving their shirts strung along on the chain and the rest of their clothing wherever it landed.

As L's breathing finally evens out, Light runs a hand along L's face, feeling the incline of his jaw, the sharp point of his nose, the hollows beneath his eyes. His breath teases the curve of L's ear.

Sometimes L thinks of himself as a series of snapshots, a person documented through the lenses of cheap disposable cameras and developed behind locked doors. His life is summed up by fading pictures of forgotten churches and quiet English countryside, people hanging onto the edges and letting their ratty trainers block the scenery. This moment is a double exposure, L's face now illuminated by his final moments: Light's triumphant smirk, L's spoon clattering to the floor.

"I missed you," Light whispers. "When you were gone."

L doesn't answer.

"It wasn't what I thought it would be. It got—I got bored. I am bored. I thought it was… I thought that—" He cuts off, and his hand is digging into L's side. Light takes a deep breath and lets it out, hot and shaky into the back of L's hair. "It wasn't the same. Without you."

L still doesn't answer, and there's a moment that he's not thinking of, won't think of, when Light—and the chain was there—and Light was in the shower, and he was waiting for L, and he was laughing about something L said, and he was holding his hands out, he was waiting—and L was waiting, not then, but before that, for a long time. As a child, and after that, too.

Light's breaths are slow and even, and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest is warm against L's back, and L, L can think about this in the morning. He can do what he has to do, but just not yet. Later.

* * *

**AN: **

**First of all, thank you so much for reading! I've been thinking about this story for a long time, and I'm really excited to share it. Please tell me what you thought! **

**A better summary for this story is:**

**"L comes back to life exactly six years after his death. Light finds him, but he can't take care of himself, much less a prisoner, and the world is going to shit. L and Light solve cases, quit caring, and drink coffee on Parisian balconies. They also sleep together in a number of violent and emotionally compromising ways, sometimes while vehemently denying it. But if L can come back to life, so can anyone, and soon enough B is the monster under the bed, Mello is...somewhere, and Near and Matt are both in over their heads. A mostly L-centric story with bits and pieces of everyone else."**

**WARNING: This story contains a variety of adult activities, bad language, and far too many murderous diatribes from Light. Please be warned that you will find references to the following throughout the story (either implied, attempted, or explicit): rape/sexual assualt, suicide, drug and alcohol abuse, abuse of the more general kind, and potentially other unsettling topics. **

**LEMONS: This chapter has a very blurry/vague sex scene, but there are real ones in the next few chapters, and they will be scattered throughout the story. **

**UPDATES: Every 1-2 weeks. Dates posted on my profile the Monday after I post. **

**I've changed the details of what happens after L's death, clearly, and you'll get more back story in upcoming chapters, but do let me know if you think anything is too confusing. I'm planning for a lot of give and take in Light and L's relationship, and an awkward amount of plot in the middle of feelings and stuff. Maybe this fandom is too dead for another long story but I'm writing it anyway. **

**If you want to be my beta send me a PM. I will literally love you forever if you do, you have no idea. **

**-M**


	2. The rest is dross

.

"I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as if with clamps,

and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us anymore."

-Franz Kafka, _The Castle_

**2**

**The rest is dross**

* * *

Light wakes up angry. His hands are shaking and his chest is tight, so anger is the only explanation. The shocked calm of yesterday is gone and replaced by a thick feeling in his lungs that he wants to beat out of himself and then out of L, but he doesn't beat anyone. He sits up calmly, attaches L to the headboard, and as a last minute decision before he leaves the room, puts L's sweatpants back on him. Light does not look at L's pale, skinny legs, and he does not think about them wrapped around his waist. L was never much to look at anyway, just a pasty skeleton with big fuck me eyes.

When Light had touched the notebook for the second time, head ringing and vision spinning and the whir of helicopter blades, he'd almost thrown up, knowing what he'd done, what he'd allowed L to do. He'd felt violated and ruined and he'd been so, so angry, angry at himself, angry at L, angry at everyone. The chain was taken off and the first thing that Light did was shower, scrubbing his weakness off and raging at the stupid, useless version of Light that had lain back and invited the enemy in. Liked it, even. Asked for it. He'd indulged in a number of graphic and murderous fantasies that involved L whimpering and begging and pleading and knowing Light was going to kill him. And he'd stayed in headquarters anyway, smiling and pleasant and friendly and toweling off L's hair.

Then L was dead, and it didn't really matter anymore.

Light sits down in his study. His current aide, Hamish, brings in the paper, a selection of potential cases, and also breakfast. Hamish is an operative borrowed from the UK, silent, obedient, and professional at all times. Although a number of other agents are allowed in the building, no one else is permitted to see Light's face. L's network has proved very helpful for obtaining staff, and Light supposes he should thank L for that now that he's back.

L is alive, and L is in Light's bed, and L is not dead. Light swallows heavily and eats his eggs. Breakfast gets your metabolism going. Egg yolks contain a variety of vitamins and minerals that Light must have at the start of his day.

He hadn't expected—L had _cried. _With actual tears. And snot all down Light's shirt, which was disgusting. And then he'd let Light fuck him, and Light hadn't meant to do that at all, and it had been nothing like with Mikami. Really, there was no reason for it to feel so different, like there was nothing else but L and his soft gasps and messy hair and elbows all over the place. Afterwards, though, Light had felt strange, weak and empty and sorry, like L had scraped out his insides. Everything had felt far-away and vaguely unreal, and Light had said things, things that L had no business hearing and Light had no business saying. Light was just in shock, and L took advantage of that.

There's a selection of prescription bottles in the top drawer of Light's desk, and he picks several tablets at random and takes them dry. The chalky taste in his mouth is bitter but familiar, and there is a jittery sense of anticipation in his bones. Light feels better already. He's hit with a sudden inspiration for exercise, and he stands up, leaving the paper and the remains of his breakfast lying on his desk.

The walk-in closet attached to his office is frequently convenient, and hidden behind the rows of clothing are a series of secret panels—entrances to the panic room and an emergency exit, as well as a control panel that can lock down the entire building. They've proven handy already and Light mentally congratulates himself on his forethought. Good preparation is the key to success.

His phone rings. It's Hamish, and Light enters the exercise room without answering it. Hamish will find him if it's important.

Ryuk is not around, which Light finds highly suspicious. Ryuk has taken to spending days at a time in a small apple orchard that Light purchased for him, so the disappearance isn't notable in and of itself, but something interesting has happened—L is here, why is he here, how did he come back—and Light suspects Ryuk's involvement, somehow. He's been rather vocal about his boredom the past few months.

Light's on the treadmill when Hamish comes in, and he keeps running. It's important for Light to keep up with his cardio. It relieves stress and unnecessary tension while lowering his risk of heart disease. Stress is very difficult for him to manage and may result in sudden bursts of manic energy.

"Sir, I've received an update that you may be interested in."

He hands Light a case file. The case is familiar, one he's been keeping abreast of but not really looking into, a hacker that targets traffic signals. The case is only interesting because it's international. Interesting crimes are few and far between these days, thanks to Light. He created this world and now he has to live in it. He's doing the right thing, but it's boring. It got so boring at one point that he went a little stir-crazy and killed all of his associates, but he's had two years since then to get his routine in order. Light is mostly adjusted to the overwhelming feelings of meaninglessness and boredom, and when he's not, he has a prescription for that. Several, actually. It's not important to be happy, it's important to do the right thing, and Kira is the right thing. Anyway, in this life you have to create your own meaning and Light created his already.

He flips through the reports and his eyebrows climb up his forehead. Previously, the hacker had been choosing cities one at a time, on a pretty erratic schedule, and messing around a little, mostly just sending people in the wrong direction and keeping the lights red for too long. This time, he's selected multiple cities across the UK in a single night and turned all the lights green at the same time. Hundreds of fatalities.

L will probably like this.

* * *

L wakes up alone. The chain is attached to the headboard, and he can hear Light's voice in the hallway, hushed and urgent. L feels more solid, more grounded, than he did last night, tired and old instead of wet and bedraggled and doe-eyed. He doesn't even remember the last time he slept for so many hours in a row, and his limbs feel heavy, sinking into the mattress with stolid determination. With a groan, he pushes himself up. His shirt is still tangled into the chain, but he's not naked anymore. Light must have dressed him while he was still sleeping, and the thought of Light manipulating his unconscious body without his knowledge is terrifying and vaguely arousing in a way he doesn't want to look at.

L runs a hand through his hair and over his eyes. He's sore, and the pain shoots up his spine whenever he moves, warm and sharp. He's not drowning anymore, at least not right now, so he stops to catalog his surroundings. This is his building; he recognizes the layout and the smell and really, it only makes sense that Light would usurp his building along with his identity. L looks around for something that he can use to pick the lock on the chain, if not now then later, but his heart isn't in it. L doesn't have anywhere to go except here, no money and no identity, and he doubts he'd be able to gather evidence against Kira from anywhere else, anyway.

Light struts in and slaps a case file onto the bed beside L. He's in shorts and a t-shirt and running shoes. He's put-together and shining even with sweat pooling at his hairline and dripping down his arms. L hates him a little bit, sometimes.

"Read the brief. I'm going to shower. You can tell me what you think about it when I get out."

L flips through the pages with increasing interest. He finishes the brief quickly, moving on to the actual evidence. There isn't much to go on—reports say the hacker hasn't left a signature, and the traffic signals appear to have been changed through official means. The only thing linking the crimes together is the similarity. And, of course, the taunting message he displayed on a number of electronic billboards:

kira

cum find Me bb

luv and kisses xoxo

It's such a classic Beyond message that L loses his breath for a moment, head spinning with distant memories of adolescent terror and affection, but really, it's just too easy. Beyond likes guts and glory, severed heads and artfully arranged organs and careful, step by step mysteries. Traps that you have to step into. He doesn't have the patience to sit in front of a computer for hours and hours copying in code.

Beyond would crawl up the pipes of headquarters and haunt Kira from inside the walls, would turn his agents into bloody postcards. This is not Beyond. But it must be someone familiar with him, somehow. The abbreviation "bb" instead of baby can't be a coincidence. Not in a message like this.

Light comes out of the bathroom, dressed in a robe and toweling his hair dry.

"Someone is impersonating Beyond," L tells him.

"Beyond?"

The English word is thick on Light's tongue. L enjoys his accent, the pronunciation technically correct but stiff in some unidentifiable way.

Light is clearly trying to remember the significance of the name without asking for help. L takes pity on him.

"Beyond Birthday. He was one of your early victims, before I took on the Kira case."

Light frowns. "I remember him, I think. His picture was a mess."

L is sorely disappointed by Light's lack of reaction to the Kira accusation.

"So you admit you are Kira."

Light's face goes blank. He steps closer and tilts L's chin up so that L has no choice but to look up at him, unless he wants to close his eyes. It's tempting, because Light's hand is warm and soft, but L doesn't think Light would take that particularly well. Not when he's in the middle of some dramatic revelation like he apparently is now.

"L Lawliet." The pronunciation is terribly mangled but it still sends a shudder down L's spine. It's the first time he's heard his name out loud since Watari first found him. It's as good a confirmation of guilt as any.

Light is looking down at L, all haughty and regal and overconfident, and L isn't sure if he wants to punch Light or drag him down onto the bed. Light bends down to kiss him, and L lets him for a moment before bringing his knee up into Light's stomach, hard.

Light stumbles back, wheezing and clutching his middle. He coughs for a while but doesn't throw up, which is a little discouraging. Clearly L's strength has not returned. He needs to train but he's too busy being held prisoner by the serial killer who murdered him the first time around.

Yes, L, decides. He's angry now.

"What was that for?" Light splutters. His face is an unappealing shade of red.

"I was dead," L tells him, "and it was your fault. You murdered me and you weren't even sorry, you were smiling!" He realizes he's yelling about halfway through but he doesn't care. Light did this to him. Light, blushing, earnest Light, with the eyes and the hair and the skin and "I know I'm not Kira, I swear, L, L, I think I love you, I love you, you have to believe me" and L almost believed him and Light fucking murdered him.

He's panting and he doesn't know how much of that he said out loud and how much of that was in his head but he's so angry he can't even breathe, can't even see, and if he wasn't chained to the bed he'd be strangling Light right now, watching his pretty eyes pop right out of his pretty fucking face.

Light is just standing there, shocked, and L realizes that Light must have honestly thought that L wasn't upset, and the realization just makes it worse. Light doesn't even care. He murdered L and it didn't matter and what he said last night, I missed you and it wasn't the same and I missed you—Light didn't miss him. Light was born a liar and all he does is lie. L is going to kill him.

L realizes too late that someone else is in the room, the agent, it's the agent from before, and he's holding L down and L can't fight him off, he's not strong enough, he can't, he can't, he's going to die again and Light didn't even do it himself this time. The drugs work quickly and L is left limp on the bed, eyes trained on Light's face as he is swept away into a darkened sea.

* * *

This time, L wakes up strapped to a hospital bed in what is clearly the medical room of headquarters. He's not sure Light has even updated any of the equipment. His head is fuzzy, his mind settled into a deep and impenetrable calm. L's training kicks in and he takes in his environment carefully. The room is empty, but his wrists and ankles are firmly attached to the bedframe. Everything feels distant, pale and far-away and largely unimportant, but he knows that it's not. He can't make himself care about escaping, but he recognizes it as a clear objective.

Light steps into the room. He looks much taller than before. L realizes it's because he's standing up and L is lying down.

_I am angry at this person, _he thinks. _He killed me. _

He accepts these things as facts but he doesn't feel any different. L is angry, and Light is murderer, and these are the things that L knows. L must escape. He must not tell Light anything he wants to know.

Light feels very far away but he's standing right beside the bed.

"Light-kun," L croaks. He wants Light to touch him. He wants Light to be real.

"Do you feel better now?" Light whispers. The whisper feels like a funeral. L wonders if he was buried or cremated.

L is alive now. This is a fact. This is another thing L knows, and he latches on to it, centers his world around it.

"I'm not dead," he tells Light.

Light swallows. L watches his Adam's apple bob up and down.

"No," he agrees. "You're not dead."

L isn't sure if he's awake or asleep. He cannot tell Light any secrets. He needs to escape, but he can only try when he's alone in the room. He needs to convince Light to undo his bindings.

"I don't like this," L says. He can't tell if he's actually making sounds or just moving his lips. He pulls at the straps holding his wrists to the bed. "I don't like…" He trails off. He's not sure what he doesn't like, but he knows he doesn't like something. There's something painful inside of him that he can't think about, but he knows it's there.

Light pushes L's hair back from his face, fingers combing through the strands. The soft touch takes over all of L's senses, and there's nothing else but Light. L nudges his head into Light's hand.

"I'm sorry," Light tells him. His face looks sad, and L doesn't want him to be sad. L can't tell Light anything, he has to keep his secrets. Does he have any secrets now?

Anything could be a secret, but it's hard to tell when the room is breathing in and out in time with L. He's falling but he knows he's in bed. There's a mattress beneath him but he's floating right through it.

"Light-kun, please" L begs. He doesn't know what he's begging for. He's desperate and tired and the feelings that felt so far away are drowning him now. He can't do anything about them, all he can do is let them wash over him in waves. It's a kind of sadness he doesn't want to understand and probably won't remember.

"Go to sleep, L. You'll feel better." L doesn't want to sleep but it's so hard to be awake. He realizes his eyes have been closed since the room started breathing. He's so tired, and he has to escape, and he can't tell Light any secrets. He's angry at Light. Light is a murderer. L's murderer. Light belongs to L and here he is, his hand in L's hair, his breath in L's room, his figure still and quiet and steady while everything else drifts gently away.

* * *

Light strokes L's hair for a long time after he falls asleep. L looks so small and helpless, splayed out on the bed with big leather straps on his wrists, his pale, thin chest rising slowly as he breathes. Light didn't—this isn't Light's fault. L just snapped.

Light's throat is thick and heavy. He should be working on the hacker case but he can't do anything. L is weighing him down. It looks so wrong, all these tubes invading L's body, pumping in sedative and saline. His pulse beeps steadily on the monitor. Light isn't sure how long he plans to keep L out.

It was strange, hearing L yell. Light doesn't think he's ever heard L raise his voice before. It was like a stranger was speaking while L's mouth was moving, and all Light could do was stand there, frozen. If Hamish hadn't come in, he might've kept standing there forever. L had been straining against the chain holding him the bed, eyes wild and teeth bared. Light killed a man who ran a dog fighting ring, once. He'd seen videos of the dogs afterwards, most of them scarred and quiet, but there had been one chained to a stake, snarling and fighting and desperate, foaming at the mouth. The dog had been put down. It couldn't be rehabilitated.

Light has killed a lot of dogfighters.

Light walks into the bathroom and stares into the mirror. His pupils are so shrunken they're barely there at all, nothing more than pinpricks. L is drugged up and so is Light, and maybe that's just how it has to be. They've always been the same. No reason to stop now.

Light hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on Hamish until now. His own Watari. Still, Light can handle himself. He could go back to making his own coffee and washing his own clothes and he could have taken care of L himself. L wouldn't know how to survive on his own. He'd been on his own for a few hours and he'd ended up in jail. If Light hadn't rescued him some unwashed brute with earrings and tattoos would probably have him bent over right now. L wouldn't be able to stop it, wouldn't be able to do anything.

The thought fills Light with a blind and irrational rage, and he stalks into his study. He pulls out the notebook and sets it in front of him as he pulls up an international database of wanted criminals. He fills in names until both his hands are cramped and his fingers are rubbed raw from holding the pen. He can hear Ryuk's laughter bouncing around in his skull, but Ryuk is nowhere to be seen. L belongs to Light now. Light can't let him escape. He wouldn't be safe on his own. Hamish comes in with tea and Light doesn't even look up.

Light doesn't need to be happy, he just needs to do the right thing. Kira is his destiny. Light creates his own meaning in life. But he will keep L because L needs him. L is weak and pale and small and he is a thing that Light owns. Light will decide if he lives or dies, and no one else.

Light falls asleep at his desk, hand still gripping his pen, notebook open. He wakes up with the sunrise and tells Hamish over the intercom to please bring him the case file on the hacker case and to take L off the sedative but leave him in the bed. Light doesn't even want to know who Hamish thinks L is. Light has been referring to him as Ryuzaki but hasn't bothered to explain their relationship at all, and Hamish never asks questions. They have a stiff and professional relationship that Light lubricates with large sums of money. Hamish is a fucking godsend and Light makes a mental note to give him a raise for his discretion.

Hamish comes in with the case file. He brings coffee, too, which Light accepts gratefully.

"How long should it take Ryuzaki to wake up?"

Hamish folds his hands in front of him. "At least one full sleep cycle, possibly two, so between ninety minutes and three hours. Should I prepare anything for when he wakes, sir?"

Hamish is trained in enhanced interrogation techniques. Light watched, once—a particularly difficult case, about a year ago. Light didn't have anyone with the Eyes, still doesn't, actually, and the man's true name couldn't be found. Fourteen children kidnapped, the last three still alive, possibly, somewhere unknown. They only saved one. The man took so long to break. Light never did find out his name.

"Will you have some strawberries cut up? And whipped cream. Do you know how to make whipped cream?"

Light watched Watari make whipped cream, once. He didn't know he was Kira, at the time, and the memory is tainted by a thick layer of affection, L sitting at the forefront of his mind. L's eyes were wide with anticipation, and he'd made enthusiastic hand motions while explaining how the fast whipping motion broke down the outer layer of the fat molecules in the cream, so that they would stick together and hold the air bubbles suspended between them. An emulsion of cream and air. Light had been distracted by the way L's nose curved upwards slightly, a delicate little point that Light wanted to kiss but didn't. Still, he'd been paying enough attention to know how it was done. Hamish is not a chef but it can't be that hard.

Hamish nods. "Is there anything else, sir?"

Light shakes his head and Hamish accepts it as a dismissal, leaving the room quietly and shutting the door behind him. While he waits for L to wake up, he gets to work on the hacker case. He can only find records for one Beyond Birthday. It can't possibly be a common name, not even in English-speaking countries, so he starts researching his case, growing more and more interested by the strange lack of detail in his investigation. L must have been involved in the case himself, which explains a lot. A little digging reveals Naomi Misora's involvement as his proxy. Light had almost forgotten about her, actually. He feels so distant, now, from the Light of six years ago. The same but different. She'd be such an easy obstacle to overcome, now. No need to panic, no life-or-death moments. His new world has already been achieved.

After an hour, Light goes to sit in the medical room with L. His face is drawn and pale, but his breath seems steady, at least. The IV is still in him and Light itches to take it out but doesn't want to get blood everywhere. Maybe he'll have Hamish do it when he comes in with the strawberries.

Eventually, L's eyes blink open, fluttery and slow. Light rests a hand on his arm, right above his bandaged wrist. L ripped up his wrist when he was trying to get at Light like some sort of feral animal. There was blood all over the bed but he didn't need stiches.

"Where…" L's voice is so faint. Light checks his blood pressure but it's normal. L takes in a deep breath and tries again. "Where am I?"

"You're in the medical room," Light tells him. "What do you remember?"

L takes a little while to answer. He still looks pretty out of it. Light isn't certain how long it will take the drugs to leave his system.

"I was floating," L says, finally. "And I couldn't tell you any secrets."

He frowns. "That was a secret, I think."

All of L's secrets are Light's, now. What does he have left to hide?

L pulls at his restraints. "I don't—I want—" He's interrupted by a coughing fit. Light panics a little bit and tilts L's head back to open his airway. Maybe they should be giving L oxygen. Sedation can slow down your breathing. Is L getting enough oxygen? Light checks the sensor on his finger but the numbers on it are meaningless to him. It's not making any noise, though. Wouldn't it make noise if L needed more? Light is sure it would make noise.

There's a button on the bedside table that summons Hamish. Light presses it just in case. Hamish has more medical training than Light, he's the one that set L up like this. Light wants to let L have some strawberries anyway.

Hamish comes in. He sets up a tray beside Light, takes L's vitals, and adjusts the bed so that L is in a more upright position. L makes a frustrated noise but doesn't do anything else.

"He may be nauseous," Hamish warns. "It's a possible side effect."

"Does he need a breathing tube? Can he breathe on his own?"

Hamish shakes his head. "His oxygen levels are fine. The strawberries are cut very finely in case he has difficult chewing."

The strawberry pieces are ridiculously tiny. There's a spoon with them instead of a fork.

"Thank you."

Hamish does a little bow and leaves.

Light strokes L's forehead. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah…yeah. You're talking about me. I'm here."

"You are here, but I'm not talking about you anymore."

"You were."

"I was. Do you want some strawberries? There's whipped cream, too."

L opens his mouth expectantly instead of responding. Light laughs and spoons a few strawberries bits and a generous helping of whipped cream into his mouth. The strawberries are practically a puree. That's good. If L chokes Light knows the Heimlich maneuver.

"I'm sorry," Light tells him. He told him before but he feels like he should say it again.

L is licking whipped cream off his lips with an expression of bliss. It's strange to see his face taken over by unguarded emotion, and Light marvels at it for a moment.

"Sorry…for what?"

Light isn't sure. He just is. Maybe. He wouldn't do anything differently but if he could have had L this whole time—could've kept him here, quiet and safe, letting Light feed him strawberries—he couldn't, but if he could have. That would have been nice. If there had been a way.

L is tugging at his restraints again. "Please," he says, and his eyes are so big, how are they so big?

Light handcuffs L's ankle to the bed and undoes the straps buckling him in. How would he escape, anyway? Where would he go?

"You have to stay here," Light orders. "Or I'll keep you tied up all the time. Don't think I won't, because I will."

L nods. He looks so worn out. He's exhausted himself. He opens his mouth for more strawberries and Light grants his unspoken request.

"I'm cold," L tells him, swallowing.

"Don't talk while you're eating," Light scolds. L could choke. He's so irresponsible. He can't do anything without someone to hold his hand and walk him through it.

L finishes his spoonful. "Cold," he repeats. He leans back and closes his eyes, like a single word has depleted all his energy.

Light pulls a blanket over him and L shakes his head, his breath catching in soft little hiccups. There are tears slipping out from his eyes. Light jerks back. He doesn't know what to do. Why is—why is L doing this? Is he crying? What's happening? Light checks the oxygen sensor again but the numbers aren't any different. Nothing is beeping. L has to be fine.

"Why are you crying?" Light demands. His tone is sharper than he meant it to be.

L doesn't answer him. Why is L crying? L doesn't cry. He did it once already and that was enough for a lifetime. Light regrets his earlier enjoyment of L's emotions being on display. Light doesn't want to crack L open and look at his insides. He wants L back the way he's supposed to be, deadpan and sarcastic and sharp. This is wrong. Everything is wrong. L isn't supposed to be this way. He's strong. He's supposed to be strong, he's not supposed to break.

Light feels frantic, feels wild. He has a prescription for this but it's in his study. He doesn't know what to do.

"Light-kun," L pleads, and Light doesn't—he can't—

"Stop it!" Light doesn't know why he can't control his volume. He knows he shouldn't yell at L when he's drugged up like this but he doesn't know how not to.

His tone scares L into stopping completely before bursting into fresh tears, louder this time, and Light panics. He crawls into the bed with L and pulls them together. He wishes he could just pull L inside of him and keep him there. He wishes L would stop crying. Light didn't mean to scare him, he didn't, but L wouldn't stop and Light didn't know what to do. Light realizes he's saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over and over again, and he doesn't know if it's true but he means it right now. Light hasn't been happy for six years. He doesn't need to be happy but it would be nice.

L calms down and falls back asleep. Light doesn't want him to wake up but the idea of L staying asleep like this forever is terrifying. Light can't. He can't. Light two years ago would kill them both just to be done with it, but Light now is lost at sea with L, caught up in the waves and the rain on the rooftop. Light can't get the image of L out of his head, wild and snarling and chained to the bedpost like an animal. He doesn't think he can use the chain again. Maybe an ankle monitor. Maybe they can have something implanted in his arm or something to keep track of his location. He texts Hamish and asks for arrangements to be made.

Light can't fall asleep but he doesn't want to move, so he holds L and stares at the ceiling and thinks about the hacker case. He doesn't really care that people are dying but he has to. He's tired of this but he has to do it. He just needs a name and it will be over. Kira can't stop every crime just by existing. Not everyone is afraid of death. Some people are just waiting for it. Light felt like that two years ago but he couldn't do anything about it, because Light has a purpose and he can't just abandon it because he's tired. There are things he has to do. He chose them for himself and he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Light is saving the world and he's saving L, too. He couldn't last time but now he can.

* * *

**AN:** **Thanks for reading. I know L is a huge baby right now, but he's drugged up to his eyeballs and he just came back from the dead so I felt like hysterics were warranted. He'll be back on his feet soon enough, and as you can probably tell, Light does not exactly have it all together so don't expect the power dynamics to stay the way they are. Also, this story has plot (kind of a lot maybe?) but um warning right now that the plot is going to be in the backseat a lot of the time (oops) because L and Light make enough drama on their own.**

**Please let me know if anything is unclear/confusing, and feel free to leave suggestions and questions! Review plz and help a girl out. I will update soon, probably next Wednesday or Thursday!**

**-M**


	3. Bone of my bone

.

"Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell."

-John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

**3**

**Bone of my bone**

* * *

Things quiet down.

For the past two weeks, L has been restricted to the fourteenth floor. It contains a kitchen, an exercise room, Light's suite, and several other rooms that have locked doors. At least one of them is Light's office, where Light appears to spend most of his days. L is not allowed in the office, so he spends most of his time in the kitchen. Right now, he's camped out on the kitchen floor with a case file, a pan of brownies, and sprinkles. Hamish is sitting at the table beside him, and L has the distinct feeling that he is being babysat.

The chain is gone. Instead, L has a tracking chip implanted in his back, purposefully placed close to his spine to make it impossible to safely remove. L is permanently altered. He will set off metal detectors for the rest of his life, if he ever makes it out of this building. The soreness in his back is a constant reminder that Light has wormed his way inside of L and will not be pushed out.

L rubs at his back and thinks about taking out Hamish and having a go at the security system while Light is gone, but he doesn't. He hasn't made any escape attempts. Instead, he's solved several cases with no internet access and a strictly enforced bedtime. The bags under his eyes are the same, though, because his insomnia is back with a vengeance. Every night, he spends hours in the dark staring at the ceiling with his hands cuffed behind his back so he can't murder Light in his sleep. L is pretty sure he could kill him anyway, and maybe he should, but he hasn't.

When L woke up in the medical room with a chip in his back and an empty feeling in his stomach, he forced himself to acknowledge two things: one, Light is definitely Kira, and in a world where L has no allies and no identity, it seems increasing likely that the only way to stop Kira is to either kill Light himself or reveal his identity to someone else who will. But. L does not want to let Light die. He can't kill him, and he can't give him up. It's not the right decision, maybe, but it's the decision L has made, so far. As a result, L is not feeling particularly motivated to do anything about his current situation, or really anything at all. He's not depressed but everything feels pointless and he's tired all the time.

L flops on the ground, spread-eagled across from the stove. He doesn't feel like solving cases. He doesn't even feel like eating, really, but he pours sprinkles in his mouth anyway, chewing lazily. Most of the sprinkles end up on his face or the floor, but that's fine. L doesn't have to clean it up. At least Light doesn't make L do housework. Cinder-L, ha. L barks out a short laugh and Hamish raises an eyebrow at him but doesn't comment.

L scratches at his head and wonders what Light is doing. He's been distant but polite and disappears for hours each day, leaving L under the careful supervision of Hamish. They've been sleeping in the same bed at night but Light hasn't touched him again, and L feels the absence like something is physically missing.

The first night replays over and over again in L's head whenever he has a moment to himself—Light's hands, L gasping and desperate and drowning. He's sickened by his own weakness but he finds himself craving contact, and washing his own hair leaves him with an empty feeling he can't explain.

L chances a glance over at Hamish, who is typing away at his computer, although L has no doubt he is still being carefully watched. L is trying to strike up a friendship with him, but his only friend-making experience is Light, and L can't exactly accuse Hamish of mass murder and then put him in bondage equipment so he's a little uncertain about how the process is supposed to work.

L doesn't want to share but he's really running out of options. He holds a brownie out in Hamish's direction.

"Would you like to have some as well, Hamish?"

Hamish shakes his head politely and turns back to his computer. Rejected again. What kind of person turns away brownies? Hamish doesn't even have anything to eat. L wants to know what he's doing, but every time he manages to get in sight of the screen Hamish repositions himself.

L rolls around on the floor, bored. He considers working out but really he doesn't feel like it. Mostly he wants to go back to bed but if he sleeps now then he really won't be able to sleep at all tonight, and he'll just have to lay there until the sun rises. His shoulders tend to cramp up after about six hours in the handcuffs and L would like to be asleep for that part if at all possible.

The elevator dings and L tilts his head toward the door. L has seen no one else in his time here besides Light and Hamish, so it is almost certainly Light. Maybe he will be more interesting today. L has been trying to goad him into a fight for the past several days, but he's been largely unmoved by L's antics. L doesn't enjoy this new, more mature caricature of Light, and he wants to peel off Light's fine veneer of perfection and see the rot underneath.

Light walks in. He's wearing a suit and his hair is parted and gelled back. It's different than what L is used to, and the way the bronze frames Light's face gives him a strange sort of halo effect. L wants to touch it but he is not going to get up. This floor is his home, now.

"Hello there, Light-kun. Did you have a pleasant day?"

L is not allowed to call Light "Kira" in front of Hamish. This is a weakness he could exploit but has chosen not to for the sake of his own comfort. He likes being in charge of when and what he eats, and if Light threw him in a cell like he threatened to, L probably wouldn't get any cake and would possibly starve to death. Cake-related malnutrition is a fate L would mostly like to avoid.

Light nods at L and turns to Hamish. "Thank you for keeping an eye on Ryuzaki."

Hamish bows and leaves. What a well-trained employee. L thinks of Watari and has to tamp down on the sudden pang of grief in his chest. It's been six years since he died, but for L, the loss is still new, raw around the edges. He can't let himself hope that Watari will return. All L knows is that he himself is alive again, and it seems most likely that it was somehow Light's design despite his pretense of surprise. Light would not let Watari come back. He would not hand L an ally, would want to keep him lost and alone and vulnerable.

L curls onto his side and stares at the crack between the stove and the floor. There aren't any crumbs, or even dust. Maybe housekeeping comes up here during the night.

Light bustles around the kitchen doing god knows what. Eventually, he fetches himself a glass of water and pours one for L, too, setting it down on the floor beside him.

"Drink some water, L. It's good for you."

L doesn't want to drink water. He doesn't care what's good for him. How much longer will Light keep him alive? How much longer can L leave Light alive?

Light stands above him.

"Hey."

His voice is soft, and L lifts his face to look at him. Light looks so young and gentle even now that he's so much older than L remembers him being. His eyes aren't slitted like they sometimes are, and it makes him look earnest and kind even though L knows he's not. L wouldn't want him to be, anyway. Who would Light be without the thoughtless, child-like cruelty, without the selfishness and pride? L is briefly reminded of the shameful moment of relief that washed over right before his death; the rush that came from knowing Light was Kira, knowing that Light, breath-taking, perfect Light, was L's first worthy opponent.

Light bends closer, kneeling on the floor beside L. He peers into L's eyes with an inscrutable expression on his face.

"You're not usually this quiet. Do you feel sick?"

L doesn't answer. Something is off about Light's face, but L can't put a finger on it. Light is talking again, but L tunes him out. There's something about his eyes, maybe…

Light runs a hand haphazardly through his hair, obviously annoyed with L's unresponsiveness, and L realizes what it is. Light's pupils are _tiny. _Little pinpricks, like he's come into the sunlight after total darkness.

"Light-kun, are you doing _drugs_?" L can't keep the incredulousness out of his voice.

Light narrows his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Your pupils are constricted. Miosis is a common side effect of a number of opioids, as well as anti-psychotics."

Light doesn't answer, and L knows he's hit the nail on the head. He can hardly believe it. The Light he knew wouldn't even drink.

"Kira-kun, drug abuse seems a bit hypocritical, does it not?"

Light's face turns bright red, and he opens his mouth, presumably to defend himself, but L interrupts him.

"Oh, Kira-kun. The god of the New World, hah! If the Yagami Light I met could see you now."

L can tell that Light is getting angry, but he doesn't stop, pressing where it hurts with an unrepentant viciousness. "Tell me, Kira-kun. Do you feel guilty? Do you need drugs to sleep at night? Could you not handle knowing what you've done, who you've killed?"

Light is practically snarling, and L bares his teeth at him in a sharp, joyless little smile. He feels better already.

"You've fallen so far, Kira-kun. You're a murderer, and now you're a druggie. You've killed thousands for less. You killed me for nothing. You're no better than the criminals you—"

"Shut up!" Light roars. His fist rears back and heads directly for L's face.

L accepts the blow like a kiss, letting it slam him across the floor before retaliating in kind. Nothing like a nice fistfight to get your spirits up.

They tumble around on the floor for a bit, kicking and scratching, but Light's movements are sluggish and stilted even though he's clearly furious, and L gets the upper hand easily. He pins Light to the floor and stares down at him, panting lightly. He feels good, better than he has since he first woke up alive, adrenaline coursing through his veins and bringing everything sharply into focus.

Hamish's voice comes over the intercom, emotionless and business-like. "Sir, do you require assistance?"

"I'm fine," Light snaps, not breaking eye contact with L.

L grins down at him. "Are you sure about that?"

"Get off of me," Light growls.

L tilts his head quizzically, like he doesn't quite understand, while adjusting his position so that Light's wrists are gripped in one hand, his legs held down by L's body weight. Light squirms around, agitated.

L grasps Light's chin and tilts it upward, inspecting his eyes more closely. Light's pulse is even and his skin doesn't feel clammy, but L peels his lip back anyway and inspects his gums for discoloration. They're a healthy pink and L concludes that Light is not in any immediate danger.

Light jerks his head out of L's grasp. "Stop that. I'm not a horse."

"Mm. No, Light-kun most certainly is not."

Light glares at him but doesn't respond. L's free hand runs through Light's hair, smoothing down the unruly spikes formed by their scuffle, and Light looks away.

"I have a prescription," he mumbles.

L's fingers stop where they are.

"A prescription?"

Light swallows. L watches the movement of his throat, golden skin clenching up and down. "Yes."

"Light-kun has seen a doctor?"

"I don't want to talk about it, L. I have a prescription."

"What for?"

"It's none of your business. Now get off of me."

Obediently, L clambers off of Light. His thumb immediately rises to his lips, and L chews on it thoughtfully. This situation does not line up with the profile L designed. L's Light was much too prideful to seek outside help. Either something has happened to change Light's overinflated opinion of himself—not likely—or Light-kun has forced a doctor to write him a prescription in order to feed his drug-abusing habit with some pretense of legality.

"And how has Light-kun achieved this prescription? Did Kira-kun control a doctor into a writing it before his death?"

"Shut up, L."

Light stalks out of the room, leaving L alone with his brownies. He shoves a fistful in his mouth and indulges in brief fantasy about icing. Caramel icing, maybe. And cake pops. Perhaps if he refrains from antagonizing Light he will receive some. Of course, in doing so he would also have to give up his only steady source of entertainment, and L is not sure he can handle being any more bored than he already is.

He gets up in search of Light. He'll have locked himself in his study, most likely. The door doesn't open when L pulls at it so he knocks politely. Maybe Light will think he's Hamish and let him in. The probability of that happening is so low as to be nearly negligible, but Light's drug usage does indicate the possibility of otherwise unthinkable mistakes.

"Go away, L." Light's voice is muffled by the door, but recognizable.

Well, the chance was very minor.

"No."

L slides down to crouch on the floor. He bangs the back of his head against the door a couple times for dramatic effect.

After a few minutes, the bolt is turned and the door opens. L falls backward.

He stares up at Light, standing far above him. Light looks like he's been sulking. L smiles winningly at him from his place on the ground.

"Come on, then," Light grumps.

L reaches his arms out to Light, like a toddler asking to be picked up. Light nudges him in the side with his foot.

"Get up yourself."

With that sentence, Light has spoken more words to L today than he has in the past two weeks combined. L rewards him by rolling over onto his feet.

Light makes a strangled noise and kicks L off.

"I know you want to see the inside of my study," he says. "Come on, I'll let you come in and look around. But don't touch anything or I won't let you in here again."

L gets up and follows Light inside, hands in his pockets. His hunch is worse now than it was before he died, and he's several inches shorter than Light. It hurts to stand up any straighter. He's not sure if it's because of the tracking chip or not, because in all honesty he wasn't really considering the seriousness of his hunch when still coming to terms with the fact that holy shit, he was alive, and then after that he spent several days drugged up in a hospital bed struggling to figure out which direction was up and which was down.

If L remembers the floor plan correctly, which he most certainly does, Light's office used to be a large surveillance room. Now, it is much smaller, with a door on the left that leads into a new room that L knows for a fact was not in the original design.

He point at it. "What room is that?"

"That's my closet. I had one built into my office. It's very convenient for changing during the day."

Conveniently located, too, right by the outer wall. And huge. It's strange that such a large space has been converted into a closet, and L is certain that there's more to see here.

"Can we go into it?"

Light shakes his head.

Yes, Light is definitely hiding something. L is very curious, and he stores this information away for future investigation.

L explores the study as thoroughly as he can, climbing on top of Light's desk to survey the room better. He takes note of a stack of well-thumbed case files sitting beside an open drawer, and what looks suspiciously like a wine cabinet.

"Have there been any new developments in the traffic light case?"

Light shakes his head. "The case is strange. Unclear motivation, other than to gain Kira's attention. I expected further actions within a matter of days, but nothing else has popped up. There's not much to do until he acts again, except analyze the message he left. No way to trace the hacker himself—he's rerouted me to a number of improbable locations."

L nods. He is six years behind the times, so it is unlikely his computer skills will be any more refined than Light's. Still, he is very curious to find out who is doing this, because they must have been involved with Beyond in some way.

Light takes a seat in his chair, and L stares at him from his position on top of the desk. Their eye levels are about even, and L considers Light's shrunken pupils. He would very much like to know what medications Light is on, and why he has chosen to be on them at all.

"Do you take your medication regularly, on a set schedule?"

Light shakes his head. "I'm not talking about this with you, L," he warns. "Drop it."

L closes his mouth but fixes Light with a look. Light pulls out the file on the traffic signal case.

"Here. Go through this and see if you can find anything I've missed."

L takes the file and starts flipping through it. Light sets a computer in his lap.

"Access to current events would help me with this case," L says. "I need to be aware of potential sources of motivation, as well as cultural references."

Light raises an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

They engage in a brief staring contest. Light looks away first and sighs heavily.

"Fine. But everything you do will be monitored closely by Hamish."

L blinks. He'd only been hoping for television access, but it sounds like…

"Will I be allowed access to the internet?"

"Yes. Fine. But if you do anything suspicious, it's over. You can sit in a cell all day for all I care."

L is fairly certain that Light does in fact care, but he refrains from saying so. He can have tact, if the situation is appropriate.

He beams at Light. "Thank you."

"Whatever."

Light ignores L and types on his computer. L thinks he's sending emails—the timing seems about right—but it's hard to be sure, so L leans over so that his head is hanging over Light's screen. Emails. L was right.

Light pushes L off the desk and L lands awkwardly on the ground.

"What are you doing? You need to behave. You're like a child, always getting into people's faces and sticking your thumb in your mouth."

L pouts. "I take offence to that, Light-kun. I have it on good authority that I am very mature for my age."

Light rolls his eyes and L smiles at him with just his bottom teeth. L has practiced this look in the mirror and he knows for a fact that it is ridiculous. He does not, in fact, have an assurance of maturity from any sort of authority, something he's sure Light is aware of.

"Keep making faces like that and your face will stick that way."

Light is strangely attractive like this, preaching at L with his nose in the air. He's so condescending it's almost adorable. L wriggles around, pleased with Light's attitude.

"Mm, yes," he purrs. "More please."

Light's lip curls up. "You're really pathetic, you know that? That's disgusting."

L moves around a little bit more, but Light doesn't take the bait, so he gets up and moves Light's laptop to the floor, then climbs into Light's lap while he's still busy spluttering about it.

"L, what are you doing?"

L curls up comfortably, snuggling into Light's chest. Light tries to push him off, but L digs in.

"Look, L, I have work to do. I don't have time for this right now. You need to—"

Light keeps going, but L ignores him.

"Icing."

"—What?"

"I don't have any icing."

Light blows air heavily out of his nose. "Make some then."

"I don't know how to cook."

"Well, ask Hamish for some. What are you doing? You're not a cat, L. You can't just jump into my lap and ask for icing."

"Well, Light-kun, I didn't ask for icing. I simply informed you of the icing shortage."

Light shakes his head and sighs, clearly giving up on L. He presses the intercom button.

"Hamish."

"Yes, sir."

"Will you go out and buy icing. Please."

"Caramel icing," L interjects.

"Caramel icing."

"And cake pops, please."

Light presses the button again.

"And cake pops," he repeats.

L grins. Today has been a good day, overall, although L has yet to wrangle any answers from Light about his prescriptions. Light mutters something under his breath.

"What was that, Light-kun?"

"Nothing. Get off. You're very touchy today."

"I am starved for attention, Light-kun. Hamish won't be my friend. I even offered him a brownie, but he wouldn't take it."

Light laughs, the sound startling in its suddenness, strange and clear and beautiful. A different kind of bell. L would have liked to have this, up on the roof.

The memory of that rooftop conversation is sobering, and L huddles closer to Light, seeking a quiet, unrequested comfort in his presence. It's strange to think, now, that L is so dependent on the person he once swore to have executed. The L from before—before Kira, before all of this—would never have believed such a weakness resided inside himself.

Light rubs a hand up and down L's back. "That was a big move for you, huh? I'm sorry Hamish rejected you. But he has strict orders not to interact with you more than absolutely necessary. It's for your own good."

L doesn't say anything, just lets his head rest against Light's chest.

They're quiet for a moment. Finally, L decides that it's been long enough. Hamish should be gone by now, and L won't have long before he comes back, although caramel icing is surprisingly rare, especially in Japan, and should take a reasonably long time to find.

L strikes quickly, pinning Light to the chair. Light struggles wildly but ineffectively. The drugs are clearly interfering with Light's reflexes. Quickly, L undoes Light's tie with one hand—more difficult than anticipated, but doable—and uses it to tie Light's wrists together behind the chair. Then L undoes Light's belt. So many handy implements for tying someone up, all conveniently located on Light's person. This is why L is much more discerning about his wardrobe than Light is. Efficiency and practicality are the keys to successful detective work.

He pulls Light's belt from the loops, letting his fingers ghost along his waistline teasingly and eliciting an outraged gasp from Light. L just smiles and uses the belt to attach Light's ankles firmly to the base of the chair, neatly avoiding his flailing.

"L, when Hamish gets back, I am going to fucking kill you. Do you hear me? What are you doing? You're going in that fucking cell and you're staying there. Untie me now and maybe I'll let you out in a couple of weeks."

L places a hand over his mouth.

"Light."

Light glares up at him. His face is red with indignation, his cheeks warm under L's hand.

"Tell me where you keep your medication. I want to see it."

Light tries to bite L's fingers instead of answering. L takes a pair of scissors off Light's desk.

"Where are they?" he demands, holding the scissors up.

Light narrows his eyes. "You're not going to kill me if you're this worried about what medicine I'm taking."

"No. I'm not going to hurt you, Light. I think I've made my intentions to keep you alive clear, seeing as I've taken no actions against you so far, despite my physical freedom. But," L takes a chunk of Light's hair and pulls it straight, moving the scissors threateningly close. "If you don't tell me where you're hiding them, I will start cutting."

"You wouldn't."

L looks at him seriously. "I would."

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Okay." L snips off the entire chunk at the root, leaving a short patch of fuzz on the side of Light's head.

Light cries out.

"What are you doing! Why are you doing this?"

L drops the hair into Light's lap. It drifts through the air gently, leaves falling in autumn. Light looks like he might cry, and L feels an irrational pang of guilt. He kisses him on the forehead.

"It's not that bad, Light. You can brush the rest of you hair over it until it grows back. But if you don't tell me where you keep your medication, I will keep cutting. You'll be bald by the time Hamish gets back."

Light glares at him balefully.

"The top drawer," he spits out. "In the center of the desk."

L pulls at the drawer. It's locked.

"Where's the key?"

"There isn't a key. There's a tab on the bottom. Press it up and to the left."

L does as Light says, and the drawer pops open. Inside is a row of white prescription bottles, all the labels printed with the name Suzuki Asahi.

"Asahi?"

"My name, now. Yagami Light was killed in the search for Kira. The news was kept quiet in order to protect my family."

"Ah." L checks the labels thoroughly. All prescribed by the same doctor. Seven different prescriptions in all, including a variety of painkillers and anxiety medications, as well as an anti-depressant.

L picks up the anti-depressant. It's an MAOI, usually prescribed for atypical depression, often experienced by children and bi-polar adults. Probably the cause of Light's miosis.

"You take this daily?"

"Yes," Light grits out.

"For how long?"

"Two years. Why are you asking me this? Why do you want to know?"

"What about these others? Do you take any of them daily? Or are they all as-needed?"

"As needed."

L chews on his thumb. This is—this is unexpected. The dates on the bottles are more than 23 days apart, ruling out any use of the Death Note in obtaining the prescriptions, although more traditional blackmail would still be possible. Still. L had been expecting opioids, not an anti-depressant. MAOIs make poor recreational drugs, because of limited pleasant effects and the need for a severely restricted diet.

"MAOIs can react poorly with many other medications, Light, especially these anxiety medications. Are you sure you're seeing a qualified doctor?"

"Yes, I'm sure. The dosages are all purposefully low. It's fine."

Light looks so uncomfortable, head dipped low like he's trying to hide. L strokes his arm awkwardly, trying to bring some measure of comfort.

"And the wine cabinet? You shouldn't drink alcohol on MAOIs, Light."

"It's an MAO-B inhibitor. Alcohol is fine. I just get drunk faster."

"And do you?"

"What?"

"Get drunk."

Light's lips are all scrunched together. He hates this, L knows. L isn't sure what's worse for him—being powerless, tied down and helpless at the mercy of his own prisoner, or having his weaknesses revealed, his pretentions stripped away. Light is the kind of person who relies on masks, who needs the play-acting to establish a self at all. A person made of the strings he balances on.

L takes pity on him, struck by a sudden and unfamiliar feeling of empathy—L has been trapped, L has been stripped, and it was Light's doing, but for some reason it doesn't seem to matter now whose fault it was. "You don't have to answer that, Light. It's okay. I'll untie you now."

Light doesn't say anything. His eyes are shut, and L kisses his eyelids. They're not that intimate, perhaps, but they were, once.

L bends down to free Light's feet. On the way, though, he notices it—a suspicious looking bulge in Light's pants.

L raises an eyebrow.

"Light-kun."

"What?" The question is forced out through gritted teeth.

"Is this what I think it is?"

L doesn't wait for an answer, running a hand up the inseam on Light's thigh without asking. Light's harsh intake of breath and the involuntary tensing of his leg tell L all he needs to know.

L decides that things will be more interesting if he keeps Light tied to the chair.

L reaches for Light's zipper, applying plenty of pressure as he pulls it down. Light doesn't say anything, just stares at L as his breathing grows heavier. L keeps eye contact as he continues to undress Light, pulling his slacks slowly down his thighs. L can hear Light's heart racing, his breath picking up speed. He is reminded of a time, before all this, the chain holding Light's wrists to the headboard, Light thin and lithe and writhing.

Light doesn't move at all until L pushes his legs apart, inserting himself between them. The action wakes Light up, reminds him that this is not what he wants, not what he asked for.

"Stop this! Let me go!" His voice is slightly panicked, a little too high. He doesn't want this, maybe, but his body incriminates him, reveals his desire.

L doesn't stop.

Light begins to struggle, bucking and twisting and nearly unbalancing the chair he's tied to. L holds him still with one leg on the floor and one knee pushing up close to Light, holding the chair to the ground and nudging Light at the same time. He kisses Light deeply, muffling his protests, one hand clutching the back of his head, the other hand rubbing him slowly but forcefully. Light makes choked noises into L's mouth, but L doesn't let up, tugging at Light's lips with his teeth and grinding himself against him.

L pulls back to look Light in the eye, exchanging force for gentle fondling, feather-light touches all down Light's thighs and in between his legs. Light is breathing unevenly, his face flushed and his eyes wide. He's struggling to maintain his composure. His whole body is tensed and uncertain, looking for a way out, maybe, or just denying his own enjoyment. L doesn't particularly care. This is a thing he wants, and this is a thing he will have. Has had before.

Still. Light is precious, somehow. Despite what he's done. And L needs to know how to fix him, needs to know what has happened, what has gone wrong without him.

L brings both hands up to cradle Light's face.

"Light," L addresses him, voice low and serious. "I want you to tell me what happened. Why are you on these?" He tilts his head back towards the desk, indicating the prescription bottle resting on top. "What made you get them?"

Light tries to look away, but L holds his chin firmly, keeping his face directed towards L.

"Light."

"It was nothing," Light asserts. "I'm fine."

L snorts inelegantly. "Of course. That's why you've been taking anti-depressants. Now tell me." Light's face is pained, and L relents a little. "Please."

Before today, L—L had forgotten, somehow. That Light is not, has never been, put together and perfect, like he makes out to be. Has never been anything but broken, firm in his repression and his denial to keep the truth from swallowing him up.

"It was..." Light trails off, swallowing hard.

L leans his face in close, eyes wide with interest. A new case to solve. "Yes?"

"I—you know I—those children, your successors. I wrote their names down, when I found them in Watari's database."

Something painful shoots through L then, but he knew this, he knew, he knew and he still decided to keep Light. He can't give him up. He can't.

"I just kept thinking about them. And I had these, these people working with me, Takada, you remember her."

"You dated her."

"Yes."

Light is not the type to feel remorse for his actions. L doesn't understand. Why would he lie about this? But why would he tell the truth? L can't trust Light, must take everything he says with a thousand grains of salt.

L dips his hand beneath Light's underwear, awakening his flagging erection, and Light's head dips forward briefly. He breathes in deeply and L strokes Light's hair as he tilts his face back up. A new interrogation tactic. It is harder to lie, harder to keep a story straight when overwhelmed with physical sensation, be it painful or pleasurable.

"And?"

"And Mikami, a man. I was involved with him, partially."

Something unpleasant turns in L's stomach. He should have known, of course, that Light would be with other people. But. A man. L has never been one to share, and Light. Light is his.

"Who was this man?" L's voice sounds strange in his own ears. Too loud.

"He was a prosecutor. A vocal Kira supporter."

L stores that information away. He will deal with it later. But he can't quite keep it out of his head, Light and some stranger, his skin against another man's. Washing another man's hair, even. This Mikami probably called him Kira-sama in bed. Ha. Of course, of course Light would get off on that. L wonders if Light ever let him be on top. Probably not. He better not have.

"Kami," L whispers huskily, lips beside Light's ear. He increases the speed of his hand, competing with a man he has never met and never seen. "Tell me more."

A visible shudder runs through Light. L sticks two fingers in Light's mouth, preventing him from answering. Not the best interrogation tactic, perhaps, but L is starting to feel it just a little. Light sucks on L's fingers obediently, swirling his tongue around them. L unbuttons his jeans. He needs a little relief.

When his fingers are wet enough, he bends down to untie Light's legs. He pulls Light's slacks and underwear off—strange to know Light as a man of suits and ties, now, and not his teenage uniform of polos and khakis—leaving him bare.

Light is silent, rigid and stiff as L pushes Light's knees up to his chest. Light pushes back, a little, trying to keep his feet on the ground, but it's a weak showing and L ignores it completely. He slips the first finger inside, none too gently. Light hisses, pushing breath out between closed teeth.

"Tell me," L commands, but Light shakes his head.

"Yes."

L slips another finger inside and Light takes an involuntary gasp of air. "I don't, I don't want to talk about it while you're doing this, L. Please."

L concedes, less out of acquiescence to Light's wishes and more because he's having trouble remembering what he was asking about in the first place. He's itching to attend to his own needs, but he can't. He's too focused on Light, needs to have both hands on him, one moving up and down Light's thin sides, relearning the body he once knew so well. He wants to fuck him, to erase his own traitorous weakness that first night, crying and exposed and letting Light burn through his insides. He considers forcing Light flat and still, wrapping his hands around his throat, forcing him open and desperate and raw, the same as L, always the same.

He doesn't, though. Instead, he works the two fingers inside of Light until he finds the spot he's looking for, leaving Light panting and squirming and flushed, struggling to keep his cries contained. L runs kisses all over his face, unbuttons his shirt to continue down his chest, to the hot skin of his stomach and then back up to his neck. It's been so long, it's been so long—just a month passed, but years, too, and L can never be alone again, never again.

Finally, Light comes, muffling his cry against L's shoulder, still moving against L's hand. L removes his fingers and clutches Light to him, holding him until his breath evens out.

Light's body is warm against his, firm and solid in his arms, and L can't—he can't leave. He can't kill Light. He can't leave this place at all. This person, this child—and how old is Light now? 24?—this person belongs to L, and L will keep him. Even if L has to have tracking chips all down his spine, has to weather Light's moods and tie him to chairs to get what he wants. L will stay here, and Light will wash his hair again, and things will get better. L misses Watari, misses his successors, even, his children of sorts. But Light is what he has. And L will keep him.

When Light is still again, back to himself enough to start looking angry and restless, L unties his hands and watches as Light stiffly cleans himself up. As soon as the tissues are thrown away and the clothes buttoned and zipped, Light's hand goes to his hair, feeling the newly cropped section near the top.

L cringes, shuffling a little awkwardly.

"I'm sorry about your hair, Light-kun."

Visibly upset, Light runs his fingers through the spot several times, seemingly at a loss for what to say.

"It isn't very noticeable," L assures him.

Light takes a deep breath, starting to address L, but is interrupted by Hamish coming into the room.

Hamish gives a little bow, holding up a plastic bag. "I have your icing, sir, and the cake pops. Do you require any other sort of assistance?" Hamish fixes L with a look that indicates he knows very well what's just happened. L attempts to look innocent.

Light's reply is cold, his demeanor tightly composed. "Yes, thank you, Hamish. Please throw Ryuzaki in one of the high-security cells. With the icing."

He leaves the room without a look back, leaving L alone with Hamish, who raises his eyebrows pointedly and pulls a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. Always prepared, like some sort of balding Boy Scout. Dutifully, L turns around and offers his wrists up as tribute. He is escorted firmly to a cell, disappointed and antsy. He'd been hoping that Light would return the favor, but today is just not his day. Still. At least he has icing.

* * *

**AN: I've always found canon L to be rather morally ambiguous (Torture? Mock executions?), and I think he's the kind of person who takes what he wants. L would literally take candy from a baby, and he wouldn't feel bad about it, although he might feel bad in that he feels like he should feel bad. He's a complicated guy. I see L as a couple steps removed from morality, hence the dub-con not-sex. Hopefully this didn't seem terribly out of character for him, because I am trying to keep him a little broken down (like anyone in his situation would be) but still L.**

**I'm a little concerned about how long it is taking me to get near anything resembling plot but I guess that's just how it's gonna be. We need fully developed L/Light dynamics before anyone else can butt in, honestly. Anyway, thanks so much for your feedback, it really means a lot to me! Please please please remember to review and let me know how I'm doing! I'll take anything, even if you hated it. Especially if you hated it, because wow I am not a fiction writer and I need to know where to focus on improving, haha.**

**Next update date will be posted on my profile ASAP! Thanks for reading. **

**-M  
**


	4. Linger near the clorox

.

"The wind in its leaves  
is dry, arrhythmic, and sad.  
Everyone, it whispers, has their reasons,  
a few of which are bad."

-Vijay Seshadri, "Ailanthus"

**4**

**Linger near the clorox**

* * *

Yesterday did not happen.

Light was not tied to a chair, he did not tell L anything about his medication, and he most certainly did not whimper and moan while L gave him a fucking handjob, of all things. No, no, no. Nothing happened. The hull has not been breached, Hamish. Return to your station, go about your business. L is in a cell for insolence and nothing more, and Light is going to fucking kill him.

Light runs a hand through his hair, agitated, and his fingers hit the fuzzy patch _on the top of his fucking head _and if Light doesn't cool down L really is going to die. Light paces back in forth in his study, a solid line from one end to the other over and over again.

Light did not—Light did not want to do that. He didn't want it, he didn't like it, he didn't, he didn't—nothing happened. L needs to learn his fucking place. He can stay in that cell until he rots. Light can forget all about him, and he won't be like before, empty and lonely and forever, because now L is a thing Light owns, a thing Light commands. Light can keep L. Can do whatever he wants with him.

The thought is calming. Light has simply been too lenient, too weakened by his own pathetic happiness at having L back, and there's no need for any more of that. No more ridiculous feelings of guilt, because Light is not guilty, and Light does not have any regrets. He could have handled the situation better, originally, when L was screaming and hissing and spitting, but he had just been in shock. Not anymore. Light is in charge now and L just needs to accept that.

Light firmly ignores the small, bitter part of him that whispers, _maybe you shouldn't have, maybe he didn't have to die, maybe you didn't have to be alone all this time, _and _maybe you liked that, just a bit. Maybe it was thrilling, to hand over control—just the once—to have it taken from you—_

No. Light doesn't need to think about this, doesn't need to think at all, but he can't stop. There's a feeling in him, a pull, drawing his eyes to the top drawer of his desk. But he can't take any more of his prescriptions, has already taken enough, this morning. Everything feels slightly fuzzy around the edges, distant and zoomed in all at once, every step like falling, a little bit. Light is fine, but he probably shouldn't take more. He starts to open the wine cabinet before changing his mind and reaching for the heavy oak doors of his liquor cabinet. Highland Park Single Malt Scotch, aged 30 years. Nearly 40000 yen. Light picked it out because it was ridiculously expensive and he must have the best.

He pours himself a glass and continues pacing, drink in hand. Whisky must be savored, and he swirls the alcohol in the bottom of the glass and takes a whiff before downing it. He coughs a little. Whisky is a new endeavor.

He pours another glass.

Two years ago—Light can't get it out of his mind. Everything crashing in, everything going wrong. Misa had died, and Light didn't love Misa, didn't even _like _her, but she was the kind of person you got used to, after a while. It had been unexpected, her lifespan just run out—her fault, not his, her decision, her choice—and things had been so strange without her, so quiet.

Light had found new supporters, Kiyomi, first, and then Teru, but things didn't get better. Light had slept with them both, using the same tactics he used on Misa to keep them loyal and compliant. Kiyomi had done nothing for him, no more than Misa, at least; too gaudy, too much slinking around and fucking screaming and pulling his hair and shit. But Teru, if he had been face down, with his black hair wild and mussed, like L's, and he was so skinny, and Light could pretend—not that he ever did, but he could have—

Another glass, and Light is already feeling the first two. It takes so little to get drunk, on these pills, and whisky is strong anyways, but Light is fine. The room is a little crooked but that's okay. It doesn't need to be still, because Light is moving too.

Light had just snapped. Those children, L's successors, showing up in his fucking sleep, L's scream echoing in his ears, everything spinning around him, everything was fine but it was all wrong, it was all wrong. He'd locked himself in his apartment, refusing to see anyone, criminal after criminal dying at the stroke of his pen, Ryuk laughing manically in the background—and then he'd written down everyone's names, the task force, Mikami, Takada, _his father, _everyone. He'd sent his family a notice. Yagami Light, deceased. Went out in a blaze of glory, fighting Kira with his last breath. So sorry for your loss, but your son was a gift to this country. Here's a check.

Light gives up on savoring his whisky and takes a swig straight from the bottle. He hasn't even thought of Mother and Sayu in so long. He's not about to start now, anyway, and he pushes them out of his mind. Light has more important things to focus on. He is the god of this new world and he has responsibilities.

Light slumps down on the ground, resting his back against his desk and jiggling his legs with manic energy. He's definitely on his way to being drunk and he wouldn't mind if L was here right now, although preferably tied up. He's not sure what the appeal is. The lure of an enemy, he guesses. It must be, because L is pale and sharp and too fucking insolent for Light to pay attention to, otherwise. He's always so quiet in bed, face flushed and hot, holding his little noises in until he can't anymore.

Fuck. Light is really horny, but the room isn't straight enough for standing up right now. He tries to summon Hamish, but the intercom button is too far away. Whatever. Light doesn't need him. He's already got whisky, and he can get L in a minute.

An uncertain amount of time passes, pleasant and spinning and hazy. Eventually, Light finds himself standing up, not quite sure how that happened. The journey to L's cell happens in flashes—a glimpse of hallway, a moment leaning into the elevator door, a code entered with shaking fingers—and then there is L, curled up on his side.

L's eyes jolt open, wide and black and piercing. He has icing all over his face and down the front of his shirt, and Light is going to lick it off.

"Hello, Light-kun," L greets him, but Light doesn't respond. He takes a few menacing steps in L's direction. At least, he thinks they're menacing. He's not sure how steady on his feet he is right now. All Light knows is that the anger from earlier is far from gone, merely tempered by lust, hot and thick and pulsing through his veins.

L quirks an eyebrow. Light's vision zooms in on the eyebrow, and it's all Light can see, just barely there, pale and thin and growing back in. He's not sure that his vision normally does this, but that's okay. Light has always been special. No sense in questioning this new ability.

"Light-kun?"

The rest of the room snaps back in to focus, and it's overwhelming, swirling around him too fast. Everything is moving too fast. L's voice is strange and distorted, wavering in the air for too long.

Light stumbles towards L's cot. L sits up, looking alarmed.

"Light? Are you okay?"

"Light?"

Light vaguely registers L's tone of concern, and he tries to respond, but it's hard to push sounds out. He manages a vague, slurred mumble. Talking is unnecessary. That's not what Light is here for.

He tries to push L down onto the mattress, partially falling into him. He's going to fuck L. In a minute. Everything is moving in slow motion, and Light waits for it to stop.

L is pushing Light off of him, and the world is moving, Light can't—there's the ceiling, he doesn't want to fall, why can't everything just stay still, and everything is moving past so slowly and so quickly at the same time. L is making noises and standing up and Light can't right now. He doesn't have time for this. He has a very busy schedule.

He hooks an arm around L's leg, pulling him back down. He lands on top of Light with a whoosh. Light makes the sound back and holds him as tightly as he can, but it's hard to move his arms in any direction. L is peering into his eyes and his fingers are in Light's mouth and does L think he's going to be on top? Because Light might not mind that, right now. Everything is so much work. This way he can just lay here. Light arches his back, trying to convey his interest. L's fingers are pressed to his neck, three fingers, maybe six, no, definitely four—

Hamish is in the room, now, and that is not what Light wants. This is definitely not going to work because really Light is not going to sleep with Hamish. Maybe some other time, sorry, call back later.

More spinning, and L, L, where is L, he needs to come too, where are they going, where is L—and everything moving, a prick in Light's arm, quick and quiet and dark.

* * *

Matt takes a swig from one of several half-empty energy drinks littering his desk and lights a fresh cigarette from the end of his finished one. His hair is matted and greasy, his shirt stained and torn, but his mind is sharp and focused, intent on his final purpose, his all-encompassing goal.

Kira.

The four years between now and Mello's departure from the orphanage are a blurry haze, insignificant except for the final image of Mello that's burned into Matt's mind, a photo of Mello's pale, ruined body on a metal autopsy table.

Matt can't—he can't do this. Without Mello. The love of his fucking life and they were _children. _Matt can't stop fantasizing about what Mello would be like now, thin and lithe and his yellow fucking hair all soft and long and caught up in Matt's fingers. They never even fucked, just fooled around, and now they'll never—they won't—

The cigarette almost drops out of Matt's fingers. He takes a long, shaky breath and focuses on his computer.

He'd spent two years shuffling from one hovel to the next, searching for Mello in the depths of the underworld. Finally, Matt had managed to sniff Mello's trail to the very end, and what he found—an unmarked grave, an unidentified body pulled from a river in a tiny, poverty-stricken American town and laid to rest in a quiet, unattended ceremony—did not line up.

The cause of death was listed as either suicide or accidental drowning—no drugs, no signs of a struggle, no bindings holding him still and compliant, just a pale, swollen face and wet hair. Mello, though, was an excellent swimmer, and he would never—he would never just give up. Mello, bright and shining and vibrant, he couldn't, he wouldn't. He'd promised to return for Matt, he wouldn't just—he wouldn't.

Mello was murdered, and the only question was how. Matt was not third place for nothing, though. He had to work harder than either of the two would-be successors to maintain a steady ranking, always just below Mello but far above everyone else. He had to stay close enough to remain in Mello's circle but not high enough to make him an enemy, passing himself off as smart enough but too lazy to be the next L. He is brilliant, and after almost two years of investigation he has reached two conclusions: Kira is now L, and Kira murdered Mello, somehow. Matt is certain that Kira can control the actions of those he kills, and certain that he can kill by other means than heart attacks. Japanese police files reveal Kira's tests of his power, and the sudden, unreported spike in strange, accidental deaths of minor criminals indicate that Kira's power far outreaches that of a simple heart attack.

With no Mello—_no Mello, _and the loss has ripped out Matt's insides, torn apart the fragile strings holding him together—with no Mello, Matt's only objective is revenge.

He will lure Kira out. He'll kill as many people as he must, will wreak as much havoc as it takes, and eventually, Kira will come, disguised as L.

And when he does, Matt is going to kill him.

* * *

L is lost, empty and tired and uncertain. Maybe it would be best if Light died on his own. All of L's obligations met, his sins washed away in Light's blood. But he can't let Light die.

L is perched on the medical bed with Light, one arm chained to the bedrail. Hamish clearly didn't know what to do with L, Light's intoxicated demands contradicting his previous orders. Eventually, he'd given in to Light's increasingly hysteric pleas for L's presence, and had taken L upstairs too. L is uncertain how much Hamish saw, or what he thinks after hearing Light use L's real name instead of his alias. L isn't sure he wants to know.

Light murmurs in his sleep, turning into L. L strokes his hair with an inexplicable, heavy feeling of tenderness. Light's bangs are matted with sweat, pasted to his forehead. He should be fine, is mostly stable now. There's an IV hooked up to his arm, but it's just saline. Hamish said that all there was to do was to flush Light's system and wait for him to recover.

L doesn't—he's never felt like that before. When Light had collapsed, L had panicked, adrenaline rushing through his veins, his world crashing in, the room too bright and Light's breath echoing in L's ears. He'd thought that Light was dying. Dilated pupils and sluggish pulse and alcohol on his breath, and why did Light do this, why would he let this happen? L can't, he can't—what if this is his fault? Did L's actions cause this, disrupting the delicate balance that held Light afloat? This can never happen again. L longs for the chain, longs to know that always, always, he will be there, can guide and protect and _why does he feel like this, why does he care so much—_

L needs to be calm. Light is fine, and L is fine. If Light dies, it will be for the best. No more Kira. But L can't, L can't live in a world without Light, he's not—he won't—he won't. L won't let it happen. He needs to turn the tables on Light, somehow, needs to take control of the situation. He has to.

Light is stirring, now. L hovers over him, noses touching, legs curled up awkwardly into Light's chest. Light's lashes flutter and his eyes open, big and hazy and amber.

"L?"

Light's voice is raspy and soft. L touches his lips, which are cracked and dry. Light closes his eyes and leans his head back, clearly enjoying the touch. L runs his hand along Light's face.

"What do you remember?"

Light cracks one eye open and considers it.

"I'm not sure…what happened," he admits. "Why are you here?"

"You asked for me," L says simply.

Light appears to accept this explanation, his face relaxed and calm, eyes shuttering closed. He reaches an arm up for L.  
"Come closer," he manages.

L accedes, moving so that his body is fully aligned with Light's. Their cheeks are touching, and Light's stubble feels nice on L's face. Light moves around a little bit, hardening against L's thigh, and L rocks into him slowly. Light's head falls to the side, exposing his neck, and L kisses the side of it. He grinds down harder, and Light lets out a low groan, moving his hips up into L's.

L laves his tongue against Light's salty skin, moving from his pulse to his ear. Light murmurs something incoherent and L interrupts him with a kiss, soft and slow and gentle. He's holding Light with loose fingers and flat palms, their lips moving together in an easy rhythm. Light's hips start to move again, and L rucks his hospital gown up, exposing him easily. He wraps a hand around Light and his back arches off the bed, head digging into the pillow.

L pulls Light's head forward, touching their foreheads together. Their faces are so close, Light's breath mingling with his own, and L can't, he can't lose this. He's holding Light like something precious, running one hand along his side and up to cup his jaw.

Light's eyes are clouded with lust, his breath coming hard. L kisses him again, and this time it is rushed and messy and delirious, and Light was almost gone, he was almost gone, and L will never let it happen again. He breaks away from Light, chest heaving, to search for something to ease the process. There's medical lubricant in a cabinet that L can just barely reach, his chained arm stretched taunt, body tilted at an angle.

He strips before getting back in the bed, leaving his shirt crumpled up on the chain. Light is just watching him, head angled in L's direction, eyes slitted and hazy. L unscrews the plastic cap and squeezes the thick gel onto his fingers.

There's a feeling inside him, an emptiness, hollow and grating, and he has an urge to be taken, to be filled again. The feeling is foreign, almost unknown to him, and before he died, before Light killed him, he'd never known it. L needs certainty, needs Light to be firm and unyielding and all-encompassing. Light's legs are already spread, but L crawls over him and takes Light's hand in his own. He coats Light's fingers in the gel.

Light shakes his head. "No…too tired. You."

Ignoring him, L guides Light's fingers where he wants them, groaning and falling forward into Light as he is penetrated. There's a sense of infringement, still, a feeling of invasion, but this is alright, this is what L wants. It's still strange and new, this idea of touch as a thing that he wants, and chooses, and craves, even. L has always been his own, self-contained and far above. Now he is pressing Light's fingers into himself, breath stilted and heavy into Light's neck, and when Light can get up, he wants to shower with him again.

Light's fingers stretch him open, but it's not enough, it's not enough—he uses his own fingers, pressing deeply, and Light's eyes are wide and shocked, his breath held entirely, hips stuttering upwards as L strokes him slick and hard—and then L is lowering himself onto Light, stretched and filled and warm. His face is caught in the crook of Light's shoulder, and he moves against Light slowly, rubbing himself against Light's stomach, Light's arms pulling him close and tight.

L feels overwhelmed, everything rushing around him—Light could have _died, _could have been gone forever, and L will not, he will not let this happen ever again, never, never—and he feels Light hit a spot inside him that makes everything go white.

L is still for a moment, catching his breath, drowning and lost and uncertain, and then he is moving again, slow and steady at the same angle, until Light is pressing up into him impatiently, L held so close and tight it's painful, and everything is—everything is—

L comes with a jerk, bearing down heavily onto Light. Light thrusts up harshly until his own orgasm hits, and they stay like they are, pressed tightly together, until Light has been still for several minutes.

Slowly, L pulls off of Light, and peers intensely into his eyes. Light looks more aware now, less cloudy and confused.

"Do you remember?" L demands.

Light nods, still-red cheeks flushing slightly more. He's uncomfortable. Good.

"Did you do that on purpose? Were you trying to hurt yourself?" L's voice is harsh and urgent. He has to know. If Light—if Light was trying—

Light shakes his head. "No, no, it was nothing like—"

L doesn't need to hear anymore. He grips Light by the throat and pushes him into the mattress, holding his wrists down easily as he chokes and struggles. L leans down until his face is right against Light's, his eyes taking up the whole of Light's vision. He's purposefully cutting off Light's air, crushing his windpipe to convey the seriousness of his message.

"Never," L hisses. "Never do that again. Or I will kill you myself. Nod if you understand."

Light nods, face slightly off-color from the lack of oxygen. L releases him.

He turns on his side and gags, taking deep gasps of air. L waits until his breathing is regular, if still a little shallow, before curling around him from behind. He folds him tightly into his arms, letting Light recover from what L knows was more of a blow to his pride than to his body.

Hamish bursts into the room at that moment, but the danger has passed. Light waves him away, and he leaves after checking Light's vitals and sending an unreadable look in L's direction.

Once he's gone, Light takes a deep breath, body tensing.

"I'm sorry," he croaks, face hidden against the sheets.

L kisses the back of his neck and breathes in the sharp scent of Light's sweat mixed with yesterday's cologne.

"Never again, Light," he warns. "I mean it."

Light doesn't answer, and L doesn't expect him to. He runs his hands along Light's bare skin, enjoying the feeling of their bodies pressed together, and in this moment, L is okay. He notices the shorn patch of hair on top of Light's head, and he runs his fingers through it gently. Light is alive, and L is alive, and they will—they will figure this out.

Eventually, L is released from his bed-chain, and they go to shower in the adjoining room. Light is distant and awkward, his face averted and his hands clenching and wringing. The bathroom is all white tiles and gleaming chrome and sanitized smoothness, and L, pale and naked and thin, blends right into the stark, utilitarian environment. Light looks like a person from a dream—out of place with his tan skin and doe eyes and soft curving thighs—and L lays a hand on Light's arm, trying to ground him in the room with his presence.

"Light."

Light says nothing, doesn't quite meet L's eyes.

L pulls him into the shower. They wash separately, backs turned away from each other, and L doesn't know how to cross this distance, doesn't know how to bring Light back here with him.

He tugs at Light's arm and holds out the shampoo to him, silently. Light looks from the shampoo to L and back again.

"Please."

Light squeezes shampoo into his hands and reaches for L, and suddenly, everything is right again. L leans his face into Light's chest, letting gentle fingers caress his scalp, and yes. L can do this. He is strong, and he is the world's top three detectives, and he is going to save them both.

They get dressed quietly and Hamish interrupts them as they're leaving the medical room.

"Excuse me, sir. There's been an update on the traffic signal case."

Light takes the proffered folder and quickly scans the accompanying report. L reads it over his shoulder.

The hacker targeted America this time, disabling traffic signals in major cities across the company. His message only appeared in Chicago, though, blazoned across electronic billboards leading into the city:

DON'T B SHY

It's even less to go on than last time, and the body count has risen dramatically.

Alarms are going off in L's head. B, what does B have to do with this.

"We need to go to Chicago," L mutters.

"That's what he wants," Light tells him. "It's probably a trap of some sort."

L nods. "If it is a trap, we need to spring it in order to draw him out."

Cases are comfortable, familiar, and they fall into step easily, building on each other's conclusions. L has missed this with an ache that reaches down to his bones. As they sit down at the kitchen table together, surrounded by case files and computers, Light tangles their fingers together, rubbing the back of L's hand briefly before turning his attention to the screen.

L smiles, a tiny quirk of his lips that would be invisible to anyone but Light. It's like old times, but better, lacking the uncertainty that darkened their Kira-chasing days.

After several hours, L stands up to get a snack. As he stands, though, his head swirls, eyesight cutting in and out, Mello's face staining his vision—there's a pang that cuts through L's heart, sharp and electric and cold, and he cries out—Mello flashes in front of him, gold hair and blue eyes, laughing and cruel—and L faintly registers his body hitting the ground, Light shouting, footsteps—and everything goes black.

* * *

The last thing Mello remembers is standing on a bridge, watching himself as if from a great distance, feet trudging towards the edge, everything tinted blue, his mind screaming no, no, _no—_and then water, swirling and cold and rushing into his lungs, and his last thought had been of Matt, his broken promise to return.

Now, Mello is naked and cold and miserable, splayed out in a dumpster like a murdered prostitute. He takes in deep, gasping breaths, relishing the burn of air in his lungs, and tries to ignore the pain rushing through his limbs like fire. He doesn't know how this happened, but he must have been dragged out of the river and left here for the police to find in the morning. He waits for the strange blue haze to return, commanding him to step off the bridge, taking over his mind and controlling his limbs, but nothing happens. Mello is his own now. Relief rushes through him, almost overpowering the agony that leaves him gasping and limp.

He forces himself to sit up, losing the contents of his stomach in the process, and fights his shaky limbs as he struggles to stand up. Mello doesn't know what's happened, how he's here or what is going on. He needs to get out of this dumpster. He needs clothing.

Mello eventually manages to pull his way out. There's a stack of concrete blocks next to the dumpster, and Mello picks one up, carrying it a few feet before having to set it down and catch his breath. He repeats the process, making his way out of the alley.

Mello is strong, and he can do this. He's thrown back to his childhood, not long before Whammy's. He'd been eight or nine years old, a fresh-faced runaway stealing food and sleeping in empty subway stations, when he was given his first taste of helplessness in the form of two drunken men who'd laughed at Mello's flailing fists. It was then that he'd realized—no one was coming to save him. Mello had been left in an alley with blood trickling down his thighs, but he'd gotten up then, and he is getting up now.

He leans over and takes several deep breaths, preparing himself for a burst of energy. Then he throws the concrete block into the glass door of a restaurant. Quickly, he forces his way inside, heading straight for the kitchens. Ignoring the wail of the alarms, Mello finds a uniform in an unlocked closet and steals the warm coat hanging outside the walk-in freezer. He scoops up as much food as he can carry and slips out the back door just as the police are arriving, blue lights flashing into the hollows of the building.

Mello runs as far as he can, losing himself in the maze of alleyways, lungs burning, limbs aflame. When he can no longer stand it, he curls up in a doorway, pulling the coat over his face and cradling the food in his arms. He takes slow, measured bites, and when he is full, he pulls discarded cardboard from where it is piled up in the alley, and makes himself a shelter against a wall. Mello needs to sleep, needs to recover, because in the morning, Mello is going to get back to work. He has a plan. He needs to join the Mafia, and then he is going to beat Near. That little albino brat better watch out, because this time, out here in the real world, Mello is going to win.

* * *

**AN: So sorry for the delay! My internet died on Tuesday and I only just got it back. Hopefully it will stay alive this time! Anyway, thanks so much for reading! We finally got a little bit of the real stuff, aka MORE CHARACTERS YAY. I know it was probably kind of all over the place but I was pretty impatient to get this out. **

**Also, just as a point of clarification, everyone comes back at the age they were when they died. I figured that made the most sense, generally, and it gives me something interesting to work with as everyone is coming back to life. **

**PLZ review and let me know what you thought! It means a lot to me, especially since this is my first story in this fandom. Specific questions I have include: What do you think of my Matt/Mello characterization? Were you okay with having so many different viewpoints in one chapter?  
**

**Thanks again! **

**-M **


	5. I thought myself a fragment

.

"When I look at my life and its secret colours, I feel like bursting into tears."

-Albert Camus, _A Happy Death_

**5**

**I thought myself a fragment**

* * *

L is on the kitchen floor, and Mello is not here, and why would Mello be here? L shakes his head, trying to clear the fog clouding his mind. Light is saying something but his voice is so far away L can hardly make it out. Why is he—what is going on?

"Why am I on the floor?" L is clutching his head in his hands. It feels like a vice is tightening around his skull. "Did Light-kun give me drugs again?"

Light has his hands all over L, a flurry of touches, his hair, his sides, his face. L grabs his wrists, stilling their panic. "Light-kun?"

He shakes his head. "No drugs, L. What happened? Were you just dizzy? Do you need something to eat?"

L isn't hungry, but he could eat. He says as much and Light frowns, brows furrowing delicately. Sometimes, Light looks so beautiful—so soft, with wide eyes and white teeth, the curve of his jaw smooth and perfect, just waiting for L to cup it in his hands.

He's saying something else, but L can't pay attention. It's hard to take Light's concerns seriously when he looks like an underwear model. He's wearing clothes but it's the principle of the thing.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Oops. Light's all offended now, a rosy tint rising in his cheeks. L is overtaken by a sudden urge to put his hands on Light's body, and he does so, pressing Light down onto the floor.

"What is with you? You just passed out for no reason and now you're molesting me?" Light splutters. He's pushing L's hands away weakly, a petty show of resistance that L ignores. L mouths his way along Light's jaw, running his hands along the waistline of his pants. Light is so unnecessarily toned, muscles rippling under the skin of his abdomen. It's all for show but L doesn't know who the show is for. Light probably doesn't even know, for that matter. His whole life is held onstage for an audience he hates. L will never understand him. Well, that's not actually true. L does understand, he just thinks it's stupid.

L rocks his body against Light's. L is _really _lacking in self-control, lately. He feels like he's fifteen again, hot and antsy for no reason, squirming against the pressure of his jeans at the barest glimpse of skin. It's not a feeling he wants to have again, necessarily. His work is much less efficient when he's constantly distracted by his own body.

Light gives up his struggles and drags L up for a kiss. His mouth tastes minty, like toothpaste, and L wrinkles his nose. Not sweet enough. It doesn't deter him, though, and he makes a point to ravage Light's mouth, leaving both of them gasping when he finally pulls away.

Light grips L's face firmly in his hands, locking their eyes together.

"L. What happened. Please."

"I don't know," L tells him, trying unsuccessfully to return to his original objective of an unclothed, squirming Light. Light's fingers tighten, holding him in place.

"You were saying something. About Mello."

"I don't know, Light. I thought I saw him, but obviously he's not here." L does not want to think about this right now. It's ruining the mood.

Suddenly, Light clutches L to his chest.

"You scared me," he whispers.

L is still for a moment. He really doesn't know what happened. He'd felt like he was dying all over again. But L doesn't want this, this cycle they're stuck in, one emergency after the next. Fainting left and right like goats. Light drugs L and L ties him to a chair and then Light almost kills himself—and he wasn't really in danger, but he could have been, and L has not let that one fully register, not yet, not ever—and now L is passing out in the kitchen. He's done. He wants what he wants and he doesn't much care what else is going on right now. L decides to make that fact known.

"I'm going to fuck you now," L says, matter-of-factly, and he gets started on Light's belt buckle. Light protests a little but it's a poor showing, flimsy fingers and half-hearted complaints. L kisses him quiet. Jerking Light's pants open, he starts fumbling with Light's shirt.

"All these fucking buttons," he grumbles. Light arches into his touch and L growls with impatience, ripping the stupid thing open.

"Hey! Don't break my shirt," Light protests. "Shirts are fucking expensive."

"Shut up," L tells him.

Light glares and opens his mouth to complain some more, no doubt, but L reaches down to grip him fiercely and it turns into a gasp. Light is hardening in L's hands and the feeling is powerful and strange, welling up in L's chest. L kisses him again. He can't stop. He can't lose this. Finally, L manages to get Light's clothes out of the way and he spits on his fingers, impatient.

He presses his fingers into Light and Light's back leaves the floor.

"God, L," Light groans. "What is with you today?"

Light is really fucking tight, and L isn't being particularly gentle, but Light doesn't seem to mind, writhing around on the floor like he's being paid for it. He certainly looks the part, golden and gasping and the schoolboy haircut he still has for some reason. Looking at him is a jolt straight through L and he soon gives up on preparation.

Light hisses, tensing up as L slides into him, and L has to stop halfway, hunched over Light's form like something monstrous and strange. It's too much, and L holds his breath, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. He hasn't done this in so long—it feels like a lifetime, and in a way, it has been—so long. His hair is dripping down into his face, and Light's eyes are scrunched up. L takes a deep breath and pushes the rest of the way.

It's gritty and rough, almost painfully tight, and L did not prepare Light well enough for this. He starts to apologize—this really can't feel any better for Light—but he thinks better of it, starting a steady rhythm.

It takes a while for either one of them to get off, but that's okay. Time hangs quietly above them as they move together, breath steadily growing faster, hands more frantic. Light is—L can't. If Light hadn't killed him, L would have had him executed, and L would've—L would've been alone again. Forever, this time. It hadn't seemed so bad before, but now—L doesn't want to think about it.

Light's mouth is hot on L's ear, wet and warm and sending shivers down his spine, and it jerks L from his musings. His pace speeds up as Light curls his legs tight around L's back. Fuck. Light is—he's like some sort of doll, too perfect, it's so much, and L never would have imagined, never would have guessed—

He comes with a thick gasp, and Light follows, head knocked back against the floor to expose his throat, sweat dripping down from his hairline. L licks it off, reveling in the sharp, bitter taste, and they stay connected for a long time, sharing each other's air on the kitchen floor.

The peace doesn't last, of course, and eventually they separate and Light goes back to being insufferable while looking like the cover of a teen idol magazine.

"I can't believe you tore my shirt," Light moans. "Look at this!" He waves the shirt in L's face, displaying the three missing buttons. "It's ruined! Are you gonna pay for this? No, you're not, because you're a fucking pauper. Without me you'd be out on the streets!"

L eats sugar cubes out of the bag and consoles himself with the thought of Light's thighs wrapped around him as Light blathers on. He works himself up into a state, puffing his chest out and stomping around. So much male posturing. He's insecure now that he's willingly let L fuck him—no restraints to ease the process, this time, nothing to maintain the illusion of reluctance—and L understands this, so he lets him bluster. L is feeling rather self-satisfied at the moment and it makes him generous.

Eventually, they reach an unspoken agreement to get back to work, ignoring the hacker case in favor of a particularly vicious set of murders in South Africa. They solve the case in three days without ever leaving the building. L can't keep his eyes off of Light. It's everything he's wanted—long, sleepless nights with too much coffee and crime scene photos and Light by his side. L is a red-eye flight from one side of the world to the next, quiet and dry and exhausted, and he will never be anything else. Light is a murderer but L chooses to focus on his morning breath and his girlishly long eyelashes instead.

The weeks pass easily, after that. The days blend into one another, case after case, coffee and strawberries and fucking and Hamish's dirty looks. They don't go to Chicago. Something feels off, to L, about the whole case—the references to Beyond, the starts and stops, the _obviousness _of it all—and Light doesn't seem to care much one way or the other. He doesn't care about most things, nowadays, and it's strange. He fusses about clothing and workout routines and hair products and he makes the occasional murderous speech about criminals, but his heart doesn't seem to be in it. He spends a lot of time staring off into the distance and talking to an invisible, mysterious being that is apparently Light's Shinigami, Ryuk. L watches apples disappear into thin air and video games play themselves and occasionally the thing runs its fingers down L's spine. L imagines he can hear it, a ghost of a cackle in the air around him. It won't communicate with L but sometimes it locks him in the bathroom or holds his cake just out of reach. L fantasizes about burning its notebook and wonders if that will make it disappear. Probably not, but a man can dream.

It's late December by the time L starts craving the outside air. It's not a problem he had, before—L has always been a creature of the indoors, holed up in a nest of wires and blinking lights—but he daydreams about leaning out of the windows. If only they opened. He thinks about falling, sometimes, how it would feel to be surrounded by the cool grey sky, wind rushing past him on his way to the ground. He can't stop thinking about it and he doesn't know why.

L stops keeping track of time, the rising and falling of the sun meaningless in his monotonous and caged existence. When he discovers that Mello is alive, though, it is mid-January, he thinks, and it is in early morning. The world outside is vibrant and alive, not a cloud in sight. He is certain that the air is cold and crisp and sharp, and he imagines it fervently.

L spends the entire day staring out the window in Light's bedroom, caught between the curtains and glass, some part of him calling out for rain. It is not yet dark outside when sharp footsteps sound outside the doorway.

L's body makes an outline in the thick fabric behind him, his bare feet sticking out at the bottom, and L waits for Light to find him. This is his hiding spot during the day, a place the cameras don't reach, but Light is home early. Now he will know. The thought doesn't bother L like it once would have. He has nothing of his own, nothing to his name but Light. It's all he needs, maybe, except for an internet connection and a steady supply of cake. It's not love but it could be.

The curtains whisk back, briefly, and then there is Light, wedged in beside L.

"What are you doing in here?"

Light's voice is soft. This is a place of whispers.

L doesn't reply, just lists into Light, a whole body tilt to the side. He rubs his head into Light's shoulder, a stray cat marking its territory. Light runs his fingers through L's hair.

They stand there for a little while, staring out into the Tokyo skyline. L watches the cars drive by. Each car holds a person, a life, someone with dinner plans and in-laws and house payments, and the very idea—the normalness of it all—is vaguely terrifying. Who would L be, if he'd grown up like that, gone to college, lived in a house with a white picket fence? Kira never would have chosen him. He'd have lived and died in an entirely different kind of anonymity. Bored forever, and then nothing.

L breathes hard out of his nose, breaking the silence.

"I'd like to go outside."

Light turns to face him, visibly shocked.

"Outside?"

L nods.

Light puts his arm around L's shoulders. It's a teenage romance.

"Are you okay? Are you depressed? You shouldn't be. You're doing the right thing, being here with me. Kira is saving the world. Just look at the crime rates, L."

"I'm not depressed. I don't want to have this conversation, Light. You know what my stance is."

L is happiest when he pretends Kira doesn't exist. Kira isn't real, not here, not in this happy little prison Light has created for him. It's a cage of L's own making, really, and it's no better out than in anyway.

Light rubs his hand up and down L's shoulder, gripping him tightly in a show of manly affection. L feels vaguely like a football player.

Eventually, they leave the curtains, going to work at the kitchen table. It's turned into an office of sorts, which seems ridiculous in such a blatantly large building, but it's easier for L to work in than Light's study and L has not been allowed off this floor yet. As L sits down at his spot, burrowing into his little cave of computer screens, he thinks about what he has learned today, what sent him to the window earlier.

Mello.

It's not something—it's not necessarily something L is prepared to believe, but it is true nonetheless. L has been keeping careful tabs on organized crime, and either another child prodigy is using Mello's handle, or Mello has returned. In this instance, Mello's return is actually the most probable occurrence. Who else would dare?

Mello was always so young, so angry. One of L's many failures. He never did get a successor right; A and B were more excusable, because they'd been Watari's projects more than anything, so close to L in age. But Mello and Near were broken children and L has no one to blame but himself.

L pushes away the cinnamon crumble coffee cake he's been eating. There's a new bakery downtown and L is making a point of having everything off their menu, but he can't right now. His stomach is queasy and uncertain, an unidentifiable emotion that L is not ready to investigate.

Light is shooting surreptitious looks in his direction every couple of minutes. He's worried, which is nice, but L can't tell him what's wrong. Light must not know, because there will be no saving Mello, then. There are no half-remembered touches and handcuffed romance to keep him alive. L does not mistake Kira's justice for mercy.

Light is drawn into his work, and L watches him. His hair falls boyishly over his eyes, not gelled back today. Light occasionally flips it out of his face. His bangs slide back down into position after a brief moment, and L misses the short patch he made. It was cute, although Light would be heavily offended if L dared to say so. It's mostly grown out now, a half-formed lock of hair that Light usually smoothes down with wax.

Light is making faces, now, a heaviness between his eyebrows, a scrunch of his nose. L waits for him to announce the source of his irritation.

Light sighs heavily.

"Well," he starts. "It looks like we have to leave this place soon, anyway."

L widens his eyes to indicate interest.

Light turns one computer's screen towards him. L reads quickly and efficiently, eyes jumping from one side of the page to the next. The hacker case has escalated again; this is the fourth attack, bigger and better and more exciting than all the rest. It's in LA. Affluent neighborhoods and slums were targeted incredibly evenly, indicating an awareness on the hacker's part. The message is clear. This is not about money.

"There's public outcry demanding L's involvement."

L nods. Of course. He'd known such things would happen once L's existence was revealed to the general public. It is of no import. Either they will take the case, or they will not. They've been ignoring it, but it's probably for the best if they solve it.

Still… L can't stop the thin flare of hope from lighting up inside of him. What if this is Mello? The BB references, the drama and the violence. But Mello would not be so removed, would not be so far away from the action. There's a heavy feeling in L's stomach, something like guilt. If only he knew more about his successors, about the children who lived to become him. Besides Near and Mello, L isn't sure…he doesn't know much.

Mello may be involved with this. He's the only one who would know about B, anyway, the only one L told. And he is definitely back, or else someone pretending to be him has infiltrated the American mafia. The only certainty is that neither Mafia Mello nor the traffic hacker could be Near.

If Near returns, L fears for him. Near was never meant to leave the soft warmth and protection he'd been kept in all his life. Even more so than L, Near was sharp and cold and cruel and helpless. A puppeteer, pulling strings in the background. L had always hoped that with time Mello's fire would calm enough to be tamed, so they could work together—the perfect team, with Near calling the shots, arranging everyone on his chessboard so Mello could jump across rooftops and hold people at gunpoint.

Too late now, maybe. Light is looking at him, but L keeps his suspicions to himself. If he reveals his concerns, if Mello is back, his successor will die. Again.

"We'll have to go to L.A. if you want to get involved," L tells him. "We can't solve the case from here."

L.A. Why L.A.? How does Beyond factor into this? Is it all one big coincidence? Surely not. If there is one thing L knows, it is that coincidences do not exist. Every connection comes from somewhere.

Light's head is in his hands.

L tilts his head. Waits for Light to look up. Light has been—down, lately. Slow and uneven. L knows he's been drinking again. Wine makes Light a hilarious mixture of lethargic and talkative, and there was an evening, not too long ago, when he came home—late, slurring and stumbling and smiling—and he'd fallen all over L, whispering sloppily into his ear.

"Let's fuck," he'd said, and "You're so fucking pretty, L, like a fucking girl."

Alcohol apparently has a significant effect on Light's vocabulary. L took him against the desk in his study, folded over and writhing and begging for it. Light had bruises on his hips for days. L feels an urge to look for them now, to run his hands along the smooth skin there and feel for the ghosts he left behind.

He gives up on waiting for Light to cheer up, and wraps his arms around him from behind.

"What is it this time, Light?"

Light doesn't answer. L climbs up the back of his chair, balancing precariously on the top of it while Light ignores him. Slowly, L leans over, so that his face is hanging upside down in front of Light's.

Light startles back and L almost falls. Well, he does fall, but he brings Light down with him, so it doesn't count.

"L! What the fuck!" Light is spitting and spluttering and pleasantly indignant. L wraps himself around him, enjoying the gentle flush of his cheeks and the warm press of his body. Light flops back and lets L burrow, giving up with a loud sigh.

L grins up at him, chin resting in the middle of Light's chest. They're an awkward tangle of limbs and stray papers and unnecessary suiting. Light, dangerously irresponsible thing that he is, wears ties almost daily despite the obvious liability they pose.

Light glares at him, all dignified outrage.

"You're a little shit, you know that, right?"

Mmm. Insults. The best kind of foreplay, next to fighting.

"You too," L purrs, and he stretches a little against Light.

Light rolls his eyes. "Be quiet. I'm not in the mood."

L lays his head down, and Light absentmindedly runs his fingers down his back. The playful atmosphere is gone as quickly as it came. There's a heaviness in both of them, a burden they cannot acknowledge for risk of crushing beneath it. L is a kept man, plaything of the gods—Kira, in this case—and it is a fate he has chosen for himself. L is drowning in his own weakness. Some call it love.

L knows that Light is struggling with his purpose, the calling he's created for himself. Even if he will never admit it. L knows Light, and he will carry on to the end—the bringer of destruction, even his own. To give up Kira is to give up his perfect world, his vision, his shining new kingdom. Light is bound to his own moral compass, and it is pulling him apart.

L thinks his own moral compass is probably broken, if it was ever there in the first place. Once you let a serial killer fuck you and keep you prisoner—and fuck said serial killer back, for that matter—you lose some of your moral high ground.

"Let's get drunk," L suggests.

"You drink?" Light's eyebrows are both raised. L doesn't usually drink, as a rule, and now that he thinks about it he's quite certain Light has never known him to consume alcohol.

"Yes."

They decide to get drunk on the roof. It's a spectacular plan. They pregame a little in Light's study, and by the time they make it up there, L is pleasantly buzzed, not enough to be unsteady on his feet but enough to not care if he was.

The first breath of fresh air is staggering, and L has to sit down. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. Tokyo is surrounding them, cars and skyscrapers and the deep pinks and reds of air pollution as the sun sets. L is so happy he thinks he might cry, his eyes burning and watery. Light is slightly blurry, but L knows he's concerned because he glances away and then back to L again.

L smiles at him. "I'm cold."

It's a new sensation after months of temperature control. L feels wild, feels free. He throws his arms out and revels in the feeling of wind rushing across his skin.

Light rolls his eyes. So many eye rolls, L thinks. Light is like a twelve-year-old girl a significant majority of the time. L can't decide if it's stupid or attractive.

A mixture of both, probably.

Light leans in and kisses him, then, and they kiss for a while, back and forth. It's warm and it's nice and it doesn't really go anywhere, but L keeps doing it anyway. This almost didn't happen at all, and L will never be able to absorb that. What they have now—it was a statistically negligible percentage, a possibility conceived and denied.

L is an atheist, but in moments like this, he wonders.

Light calls Hamish to bring them blankets and coats. They warm up with whisky while they wait.

Hamish drops the gear off with a disapproving look. L isn't sure which one of them he disapproves of most, honestly. He's not sober enough to care right now. He wonders what Watari would think, seeing them like this.

He'd been wary about Light, L remembers, but oddly supportive. He'd suggested that they simply make Light disappear, drag him away under the pretense of investigation. A win-win. Kira safely locked away as L's little helper, and L would never have to give him up.

It hadn't felt right. If Light hadn't forgotten everything, L might have considered it more seriously, but… he wanted to win.

"You should wear socks, at least," Light tells him.

L sits up from the shock of it, jolting from where he'd been sprawled across Light.

"Socks?" His eyes are wide, and he can tell his hair is even crazier than normal from the tingle in his scalp.

Light laughs so hard he rolls over.

L lays back down, grievously offended. Socks. The nerve of it all. Who does Light think he is?

_God, _his mind supplies, and then L is laughing too. Their laughter turns to giggles before petering out into nothing. Light takes a swig of vodka and coughs loudly.

"I thought that was the whisky," he manages, still coughing.

"The whisky is mine," L informs him. "It's warmer, and my feet are cold."

Light takes off his shoes and socks, wiggling his toes at L. "There. Now my feet are cold too."

They press their feet together in a show of solidarity and it somehow turns into trying to capture each other with their blankets. Light wins and L wriggles around in Light's lap, his limbs folded together in an improbable position. Light kisses him and they make out again, dry humping in the cold like they aren't grown adults, like they haven't been past this point a hundred times. L is thrown back to simpler days, to the crushing affection of his doppelganger. B was always unexpectedly gentle, hesitant touches and lingering glances, like he couldn't believe L was letting him so close. They barely even made it past mutual hand jobs. They did tie each other up a couple of times, and that was pretty fun.

He was never—he wasn't enough. L beat him and then he was done.

They break apart, warm and fidgety and drunk. Light feeds L vodka and L drinks obediently, hands still caught in the blanket. There's alcohol everywhere but L doesn't care. He looks up at Light and his breath catches.

This is love, L thinks. He's too drunk to deny it, right now.

L breaks free from his blanket prison, and Light is cradling the whisky bottle tightly. He takes another swig and his gaze is faraway, caught up in sudden depression. L takes the whisky away.

"My turn."

Light nods agreeably, switching back to vodka. L frowns. That was not the point of confiscating the whisky.

"Give me that, too."

"No, I need it."

"No you don't. I need it. Give it here! Quit moving, you're making me dizzy."

L eventually wrestles both bottles away from Light. He holds them triumphantly. "I win! That means I get to pick the game."

"We're playing a game?"

"Yes. That's what you do when you drink. I went to college too, you know."

"I didn't think you got invited to any parties, L."

"Well, no. But I did research beforehand. I know about parties. I'm a party expert. And when you drink you play drinking games, that's how it's done." L keeps a completely straight face during this entire speech. He has in fact researched this extensively.

"Okay then." Light looks skeptical. L can't imagine why.

"Um."

"Go ahead," Light prompts, impatient.

L isn't actually sure he can remember any drinking games. He's not sober enough for perfect recall at the moment.

"Spin the bottle," he announces.

Surprisingly, Light agrees without any fuss. "What happens when the bottle lands on you?"

"Whoever it didn't land on gets to decide."

It's the only fair way to play with just two people. Can you play with just two people? Maybe not, but L wouldn't want to play with anyone else.

L spins the whisky bottle. It lands facing neither of them.

L points in a random direction. "What's that?"

Light turns to look and L quickly adjusts the bottle to point at Light.

"There's not anything over there, L. What were you—" he cuts off, noticing the newly positioned bottle. He looks up pointedly and sighs loudly.

"Okay, L. I'm going to pretend that you didn't just cheat at spin the bottle, of all things."

"I cheat at other games too," L tells him, out of a sense of fair play.

"I know."

L smiles innocently. Well, he tries to, anyway. It's hard to move his face. He's really cold. Hopefully he doesn't get frostbite.

"Tell me a secret!" L says cheerfully.

"The first guy I slept with wasn't you."

L already knows that. "Yamamoto, right? That doesn't count. It has to be a secret I don't know."

"You know about that? How? No one knows about that!"

"I have my ways," L says mysteriously. Actually, he figured it out when he stalked all of Light's classmates and found a half-written New Year's card to Light from Yamamoto. Light probably doesn't need to know that.

"Fine. Um. Do you want a Kira secret, or a Light secret?"

L thinks about it. "Both."

"You can't have both. You only get one. That's the rules."

"It's my game so I make the rules, and I say both."

Light rolls his eyes dramatically. L is going to start keeping a running count of his eye rolls. This is getting ridiculous.

"Fine, fine, you win. Okay. Kira secret first. When you had surveillance on me, I wrote names in the notebook by hiding a mini TV in my chip bag."

"_That's _how you avoided the cameras? I thought you just had the Shinigami do it for you!"

L is genuinely surprised. The proof of Light's ingenuity is startlingly attractive and L is hard-pressed to ignore the urge to kiss Light then and there.

"Shinigami can't kill for humans, or else they die."

Beautiful. Light really did do it all on his own. This time, L gives up on suppressing his urges, because when has he ever done that, anyway? He attacks Light, kissing him thoroughly, if rather messily. He's drunker than he thought, maybe. Light laughs and it is beautiful, too, pealing and angelic and bright. L kisses down his throat. He wonders if the kisses will freeze in the cold.

"Let's go inside, L. You're shivering."

L doesn't feel that cold but maybe he is. It's hard to tell. He's definitely not sober.

"You owe me another secret first."

Light sighs. "This is hard," he whines. "You stalked me for months. You probably know my whole life story. I can't even think what would be a secret for you."

L stares at Light, stubborn. "Something I wouldn't know."

Light thinks about it for a long time, and L watches his face grow sadder and sadder. He is almost ready to intervene when Light opens his mouth.

"I saw you."

"You… saw me?" L doesn't understand.

"After you died. I saw you. Sometimes."

"You mean my grave?" L can't say the words without shuddering. He will not be affected by this, he tells himself. He will not.

Light just shakes his head, refusing to explain. It hits L, suddenly, what Light meant, that he _thought _he saw L, and—oh. Oh. Something has struck his chest. He can't breathe.

Light turns away. He's rubbing his face with his hands.

"I didn't mean to tell you about that," he says.

But he did, and he can't take it back now.

"Did you tell your doctor about that?" L whispers. It's something that shouldn't be spoken of, maybe, but L can't… he can't not. He's still reeling.

"No!" Light shouts. He closes his mouth for a moment before continuing, this time in a normal tone of voice. "No. He doesn't need to know. It's fine. I'm not—I'm not crazy, L."

L has never thought Light was particularly sane, but this is—this is a lot. L has to store this away, has to think about this later. When he is sober enough to close his eyes without everything spinning.

"Light," L says.

"Not right now, L. Please."

"Later, then."

"Later," Light agrees, and that is enough of that. L needs a distraction. Also, he is very cold.

"Let's go inside now," Light says, and L is prepared to go without a fight. The blankets have other ideas, however, and as soon as he stands up, they pull him back down. Stupid blankets. It's probably Light's fault. They are his blankets, after all. Some sort of…Kira blankets.

They make it inside in a stumbling, disjointed way, leaning on each other and occasionally pushing each other down. They laugh each time, caught up in a series of alcohol-fueled mood swings, and at one point L threatens to arrest the whisky bottle. He's not sure where the vodka went, or he'd arrest it too. For something. He's not sure what.

They collapse in the hallway, not even making it to the elevator, and that's fine. They have blankets, and they have whisky, and they have each other. Who needs a bed when the floor is right there?

The heat is on and it feels heavenly. L spreads out to bask in it, and Light follows suit. They're sprawled out beside each other, staring out at the stars through the huge, floor to ceiling windows. There's a skylight around here somewhere, and L rather wishes they were underneath it, but this is okay. L is okay.

L looks over at Light, his beautiful, broken thing, and he feels something in his throat. He rubs his palms into his eyes. What if Light—what if Light never gets better? L doesn't mind him being a little insane, what with the megalomania and the evil plots and the random bouts of unhinged laughter, but this is. This is different. L flips over and pulls Light to him, holding him as tightly as he can.

"I will never let you go," he promises, and Light makes a choked noise. L thinks he might be filled with indescribable emotion, but when he looks down he realizes that he is actually choking Light a little bit. He loosens up and Light takes in a few deep breaths before recovering.

"You're my prisoner, actually," Light tells him, "so I don't think that's up to you."

He has this stupid, _stupid_, adoring look on his face when he says it, though, and L—no, no, this is not happening. Light is not lovable. Light is a pretty face and nothing more. Light murders people for fun. Light thinks he's literally god, and Light has chained him and drugged him and thrown him in the dungeons like some cartoon villain.

But Light found him when he came back, and he kept L when L had no one. He washes L's hair, and he lets L fuck him, and Light missed L so much he _hallucinated, _and he has this ridiculous copper hair, and how is that hair natural? Light wears ties and gels his hair back and he's brilliant, smarter than L, even, and he's so—he's so—

L is already lost. Too late to turn back now.

L drinks some of the whisky. He thinks he might be sobering up and he is not ready for that right now. Light holds his hand out and L passes him the bottle without a word, and they pass it back and forth for a few moments.

Light turns to L, and his face is—he looks awful, torn apart and ripped open. L pats his face awkwardly. Don't, don't.

"Shut up, L," Light tells him, and L realizes he said that aloud.

Light opens his mouth, closes it, takes a deep breath, opens his mouth again, but he doesn't say anything. L waits patiently.

"I just…"

Several seconds pass.

"Yes?" L prompts.

"I thought it would be better."

L raises an eyebrow. This requires further explanation, but Light doesn't say anything else.

"Explain, Light-kun." L is tired of leading the conversation. So much work. But he wants to know.

"I mean. If you were back. I thought I wouldn't feel like this still."

Another blow, and L, L can't. Why is Light doing this to him? Why couldn't Light make everything easier, make L hate him, make L do the right thing already?

Light hides his face, but he keeps talking.

"I… I'm glad you're back. But there's still—I still feel like this, and you came back and I thought it was over, I thought it would be better, but I've never—I've never—" Light cuts off, his voice choked.

L is drowning, again. All the time. He curls himself around Light, holding him close, and Light is—Light should not feel like this. He deserves to be miserable, probably, but he still shouldn't be.

"What's the point, L? Why did it—I just—what if they all come back? What if it's not just you? Was it all for—did I—you—"

Light is shuddering under L's hands, not crying, but desperate and drunk and upset and L will not—he will not stand for this.

"It doesn't matter," L tells him. "We will figure this out. It will be okay."

L understands. There was a moment of realization, years ago, when L was still young enough to be naïve, a newly minted detective. He'd caught a murderer just in time to save his intended victim, and he'd felt that it was his first real accomplishment, a crime stopped, a life saved. Three months later the girl killed herself, and L had—he'd almost given up. He'd lain in bed for days, refused to look at cases, refused _cake_, fermenting in his own sweat and upset until Watari forced him up and L had stood out in the rain for the first time.

He'd realized, then. It didn't matter. No matter what he did, he couldn't change the world, couldn't reshape it to be better and right, and L had—L quit caring. He only took cases when they could afford his astronomical rate, and even then only if the cases were strange enough, interesting enough. L had decided that in the face of a world where nothing really counted—where nothing was certain, nothing held a special meaning, nothing lasted forever—that L was the only thing that mattered.

Light can't accept that. He needs something pulling the strings. He needs something waiting for him, an absolute good written in the stardust that makes up the universe, and when he couldn't find that—he became it.

L understands with a hurt that strikes through him viciously, jagged and raw through the center of his being.

"You need another drink," he tells Light, and he holds the whisky up to his lips. Light drinks desperately, a man in a desert, and L kisses him while he's still swallowing. They run their hands all over each other, an exploration of smooth skin and the lines left behind from the press of the blankets. Quiet, soft kisses, Light's head resting on L's stomach, weighty and warm.

L wants to fuck but he's pretty sure he's too drunk to get it up. He isn't ready for that kind of embarrassment so he decides to sleep instead, closing his eyes and almost enjoying the overpowering sense of motion that swirls through him.

"Gonna be hungover tomorrow," Light mumbles, lips still pressed to the soft skin of L's belly, and L laughs, the sound soft and sad and quiet, and they fall asleep.

* * *

**AN: Well, this is ridiculously late. Sorry. I have been very busy! Unfortunately, three jobs + one giant fucking thesis to write does not equal lots of time for fanfic, especially if I'm feeling tired/unmotivated. I'm not like crazy sorry about it but I am a little bit. Hopefully it's not an absolute mess because I just wanted to post it so it's not super edited!  
**

**Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you appreciated the extra-long chapter! Yay for drunk bonding and L and Light both being drama queens. Plz plz review and/or send me angry messages about how slow the plot is because oops. I mean for things to happen but L gets distracted and so do I. **

**Until next time!  
**

**-M**


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